


Take My Breath Away

by threeplusfire



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: 1986, Abusive Relationships, Bad relationship assumptions, Bondage, Controlling Behavior, Crossdressing, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Manipulation, Romance tropes that turn out to be creepy, Strangulation, fairly period accurate but slightly shifted, more casual yet super specific 80s references than you ever wanted, visual arts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: In 1986, a chance encounter at a party sweeps Trott off his feet into a fairy tale romance. But there's more than meets the eye to the owner of Skyblock Gallery, and its mysteriously missing star artist Alex Smith. The extravagance and wonder soon turns to uncertainty and danger. When a private investigator starts asking questions, Trott must decide if he's ready to face the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a weird story born of my love for 80's design, Trott in dresses and stories about terrible relationships. Originally I had an idea for one single scene. Just one! Then I accidentally sketched out a plot.
> 
> This story picks up in the autumn of 1986, in a city that is largely based on NYC. It's not exact but it is the City of some formative novels and movies for me. Almost every restaurant is based on a real one that existed. I spent entirely too long looking at television schedules, lipstick advertisements, MTV, street photography, old menus and photography exhibits while writing this story. The title is a reference to the hit Berlin song from the Top Gun soundtrack. 
> 
> This incredible piece of art by Kez captures the mood here: http://psylid.tumblr.com/post/182143994152/melodramatic-art-to-both-lament-and-celebrate-the
> 
> Many thanks to Ghost for the early read and listening to me talk endlessly about this.

Trott checked himself in the mirror one more time. He turned, twisting to look at the backs of his legs to make certain the sheer black hose hadn’t snagged. His heels clicked on the floor. Satisfied, he turned back to face the mirror full on, and put his hands on his hips. The dress was knit, and ruched from his chest to just over his knees. A layer of sheer net covered him up to his neck, and down to his wrists. He suspected the dress was made for someone with more curves, that it was meant to cling tightly. But it fit well enough, and he’d bought it for cheap in a thrift store just outside one of the wealthy neighborhoods. Someone probably only wore it once and got tired. It was still very new, and had the label of an expensive designer hand sewn inside.

The dress would make Trott look like he belonged, even more than the invitation he had waiting in his bag. Trott was never totally sure he belonged here. Even after years of living and working in the City, scraping his way up from jobs in an art supply store and a coffee shop to a farmer’s market weekend gallery to the sleek, fashionable art galleries. Some part of him was always waiting for someone to point out he was born on a farm upstate, that he hadn’t gone to art school or even college.

He picked up a comb and began to fix his hair, spraying it back in a sharp wave from his forehead. The platinum blond gleamed in the harsh light over the mirror. With a careful hand, he darkened his brown brows to black, and began applying his eye makeup. The shimmery iridescent blue to the inside corner, and the darker purple to the outside edge of his eyelids, blended together with the tip of his finger. The quick simple swoosh of eyeliner drawn along the lid, and a flick of mascara. Trott gave his cheeks the barest pass with the blush. Then he picked up the raspberry lipstick, a purplish pink he’d picked up last week during lunch. There were so many lipsticks in the makeup kit on his bathroom counter, but he couldn’t stop buying them. Each new color was a promise of something, the feeling that things would be perfect if he could just find the right shade.

Gallery openings called for new lipstick, new dresses, new fashions. Everyone would be there. The Skyblock gallery openings meant there were would be press, and paparazzi, and everyone who was anyone in the City art world would be there. Even if he didn’t have to go for work, to help his boss keep tabs on the competition, Trott would want to be there. He dreamed of them growing up. These sort of nights drew him to the city like a moth to a light.

Satisfied with the shine of his lips, Trott absently patted his face with a puff while he thought about calling a cab. His shoes were new, still stiff. He slid a couple bracelets over his wrists, the slender bangles and chunky gold chains a pleasant weight. The more he thought about it, he couldn’t justify the cost. Trott walked, heels snapping rhythmically on the pavement. It was only an extra few blocks past the gallery where he worked, and Trott walked there most days. (Usually in his tennis shoes, coming from the little gym where he did aerobics and yoga. In his heels, it felt longer.)

When Trott came around the last corner onto 42nd street, he could see the line of cars dropping off their well dressed passengers. Flashes went off, and he could hear the shouts of photographers. He felt a giddy thrill in the pit of his stomach, and almost stumbled on the curb crossing the street. He held his beaded black clutch against his hip and took a deep breath. There was always a moment like this, where Trott had to convince himself this was real and not a dream. Head up, shoulders back, he thought. Walk like you belong here.

Velvet ropes guarded the glass front of the Skyblock gallery in the center of the block. Blue lights illuminated the front, reflecting on the abstract metal grid inside. Trott wondered if they had found a new sculptor, too. The grids in the windows were new, or at least different from the last time Trott walked down the block.

The doorman took a look at his invitation, and nodded him through. Someone unhooked the velvet rope for him. The photographers were busy taking shots of a couple climbing out of a town car. Trott wondered if he would be in the background of a picture somewhere in the papers.

The Skyblock gallery opening hadn’t skimped on the party. Speakers hanging overhead were playing pop music instead of classical quartets, right out of the Billboard hit list. Genesis boomed, a summer song Trott heard in his aerobics class. Waiters in black and gold carried around trays of canapes and drinks. Trott took a glass of champagne, sipping it as he glanced around. He should probably eat something. He hadn’t made anything for dinner before coming here, and it was after 8pm already. There was probably something more than cheese cubes and limp prosciutto. He saw a waiter carrying something that looked like food, and followed him.

The gallery was packed with people. Winding his way through the crowd in search of Kim, he could see why. Everywhere, Alex Smith’s latest paintings hung on the walls. They were bright, vivid in the stark black and white gallery. Each one had the splash of graffiti with a water balloon explosion of color on top. The look was somewhere between a Pollock and a Haring, Trott thought. The rawness of his first work was growing into something new. The simple toned early paintings were now layered like the spray paint in the subways and the burnt out buildings in the warehouse district.

Trott wondered how one man could be so prolific. Who had the time? Maybe if you weren’t working, he supposed. Perhaps given his popularity, Smith could afford to stay in the studio and paint to his heart’s content. If your paintings sold for thousands, then why even have a day job? Trott glanced around, hoping to spot Smith. He’d seen his picture plenty of times, but never caught the man in person. He was handsome, and Trott wasn’t above flirting.

But there was no sign of Smith at his party. Trott munched on a napkin full of miniature egg rolls, hot and salty, hoping the food would keep him from getting drunk. The wine was very good, and he couldn’t help but be impressed by the luxury of this. Trott handled the arrangements for openings and shows at the gallery where he worked. They were definitely nice, but not this level of nice. At least they had little samosas instead of cheese, and actual glasses instead of plastic cups. Trott wiped his hands clean, and a waiter discretely appeared to take away his napkin and empty glass.

There was no sign of Kim in the crowd. Trott wondered if she’d come super early, or would show up late. Probably the latter. His boss never liked to be early. Trott walked down the length of the gallery, slipping between strangers. He spotted a famous pop star, a couple movie stars. A part of him was internally giddy, despite the ache in his calves from the higher than usual heels and the stiffness of new shoes. He enjoyed this part of the work, feeling like he was a part of the glittering world of artists. Trott snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter, drinking it too quickly to give himself something to do. He wanted a cigarette.

Trott rounded a corner, into a relatively quieter part of the gallery. Fewer people in the way meant he could get up close, which was nice since he’d gotten out of the house without his glasses. Trott could see alright, but without his glasses the finer details were lost and if he was too far from the pictures they looked very flat and featureless. He stared at one of the paintings, relishing having a moment to himself with it. It was full of splashes of orange, green and blue. He wished he could afford to take it home. It was nice, in its way. There was something about the diagonal splashes of color that appealed to him.

“I love this one,” someone said over his shoulder. Trott didn’t turn, assuming the person was talking to someone else. It didn’t sound like anyone he knew.

“It’s just so Smith, you know? Just so raw and unrestrained.” This time Trott did look. He was surprised to see a middle aged man, his dark brown hair cropped short. A single diamond stud glinted in his right ear. Trott gave him a skeptical look.

“Is it though? I suspect you have to be careful when making this sort of art, or your entire workroom would look like a paint explosion.” Trott turned back to the painting, and sipped from his glass. “It definitely doesn’t have that chaos. It just looks like it is out of control, which is interesting if you think about it.”

Trott liked to bullshit about art. That was most of art criticism. Bullshit, with a veneer of history or psychology or mechanics slapped on top. Once he’d figured that out, he stopped going to classes at the university.

“You should see the workroom,” the man chuckled. “You’d stop thinking of him as controlled. Smith is pure chaos.”

From the corner of his eye, Trott studied him. He was a little unfashionably formal, wearing a tuxedo. But his bow tie was iridescent, shimmering like an oil slick against the white of his shirt. There was stubble on his chin, as if he had forgotten to shave today. There was something familiar about him, but Trott couldn’t put his finger on it. Had they met at some other gallery opening?

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met.” The man turned towards him, and Trott was struck by his dark eyes. “I’m Chris Lovasz, but everyone calls me Sips.” He held out his hand. Only Trott’s self control kept him from gaping at Skyblock’s owner. Carefully he shifted his clutch under his arm, and held out his hand.

“I’m Trott,” he managed to say. Instead of shaking his hand, the man lifted it to his lips. His breath was warm on Trott’s knuckles.

“ _Just_ Trott?”

“Just Trott.” Along with many other things, he’d abandoned his first name on coming to the City. It was still on his ID, but Trott never used it.

“One name, just like Madonna.” His eyes flicked over Trott. “The hair, too. Do you sing?”

“No.” Trott shook his head, not sure how to respond. “Only in the shower.”

“Lovely to meet you, Trott.” Sips didn’t release his hand, his thumb rubbing lightly over the backs of Trott’s fingers. “Did you come for the paintings, or the wine?”

Trott laughed, caught off guard by the humor. He gently pulled himself away to walk down the length of the room. Sips followed him. He handed Trott a fresh glass of wine from a nearby waiter.

“Both, to be fair. I was pleasantly surprised by the wine, though.” Trott took a long drink, to calm himself.

Sips grinned.

“But what you do think of the paintings?”

“Smith’s work is intense,” Trott said slowly. He glanced at the paintings along the wall. “I like that he’s doing something new. These feel different from his earlier pieces.”

An unidentifiable emotion flickered over Sips’ face. He stared at the paintings a moment before looking back at Trott.

“He’s always full of surprises, that’s for sure.”

“Like not being at his own party.” Trott caught a flicker of something again in Sips’ face, but it vanished quickly.

“Yeah,” Sips said. There was annoyance and amusement in his voice. “Like that.”

Trott wondered if they had disagreed about all this. Smith didn’t seem like the art party sort of guy, but then Trott’s entire impression of him was from one interview in the weekly paper last year. As far as he knew, Smith hadn’t given another one since. In a scene that thrived on personalities, it was unusual to encounter a popular artist so reclusive. Trott might have thought it was a ploy, a way to add to Smith’s hype, except for Sips’ irritation.

Sips glanced back into the main gallery. There was a rising cacophony of voices over the music playing, the clink of glasses. He put his hand on Trott’s elbow.

“Would you like to come with me? I’ve had about enough of this tonight, and my reservation is in 15 minutes. I’m starved.”

Trott blinked, surprised. Was the owner of the hottest gallery in town asking him out to dinner?

“Yes,” he agreed before he could talk himself out of it.

They slipped out a back door, to a waiting town car. Sips gave the driver an address, and Trott sank into the luxurious leather seat. He felt giddy, excited, like a teenager cutting school. The wine made him hyper conscious of the distance between them on the seat.

“Oh god, I’m not dressed for Ciro’s,” Trott whispered as the car turned a corner. He recognized the block and the brightly lit facade of the high rise where Ciro’s occupied the third floor. Their car pulled into the line slowly working its way up the curb as other people stepped out of limos, cabs and cars.

“Don’t worry, you look great,” Sips said easily. He reached over and patted Trott’s knee. “It’s a lovely dress.”

Trott had daydreamed about eating at Ciro’s. Perhaps just drinking at the bar. It was fashionable and beautiful and filled with the sort of people he longed to be. But even after years of working his way up from renting a closet to having his own place, from being an anonymous store clerk to a respected gallery manager, he wasn’t nearly at the level of the people who went to Ciro’s. It was for people who had Made It. Trott was still trying to figure that part out.

Inside the busy restaurant, jewels glittered and dresses sparkled. Sips held him with one hand under his elbow and they followed the host to a table near the windows that looked out on the water just a block away. The lights of the buildings across the river glittered.

“Thank you George, will you bring my usual wine for us?”

“Yes Mr. Lovasz, of course.”

Trott tried hard to act casual, not to stare. There were actresses in the enormous circular booth across from them, women he’d seen on movie screens. He was secretly grateful for Sips’ steadying hand helping him into a chair.

“Relax, Trott.” Sips grinned at him. “If they let me in here, they’ll let anybody in.”

Trott laughed. A waiter poured them glasses of white wine, then set the bottle in a silver bucket beside the table.

“You’re hardly the common folk,” Trott said, lifting his glass. “Your gallery is one of the best in the city. You’ve had four of the last seven major shows, and your business turns over a lot of art. Every piece of the last Smith show sold, didn’t they?”

“We do alright.” Sips looked at him. “Do you work in a gallery?”

“The Nano,” Trott admitted. He was sure his smile looked guilty.

“Kim send you to come to check out the competition?”

“Well, of course. But I also happen to like Smith’s stuff. It’s - vibrant. It feels alive.”

Sips smiled. He held his glass up.

“What a lucky chance, that we should meet.”

The wine was sharp, dry and definitely not sweet.

Sips ordered their meal, and Trott tried to relax. The prices on the menu were terrifyingly high. But Sips knew he was just some nobody who worked in a gallery, so he wouldn’t expect Trott to pay up. Especially not since he didn’t give Trott a chance to order anything. A platter of oysters arrived on glistening crushed ice, a tiny plate of crackers surrounded by lemon wedges. It had the look of a painted still life. Trott enjoyed the cold, slippery sensation of them in his mouth, the ocean taste of them. He wondered, eating the oysters, if this was a date. Maybe Sips just liked to eat them whenever he could.

All around them, Ciro’s was filled with the noise of other people laughing, drinking, eating and talking. It was not a quiet place. The table of actresses was lively with people stopping by, and the champagne fueled laughter of the women gathered in the booth. Waiters carrying trays glided past, slipping between people like deft black fish.

Dinner arrived on enormous white plates, making every course a tiny piece of art. First came the fish mousseline, the white fish blended with lemon and butter into a delicate mousse dotted with tiny shreds of herbs. Then the duck a l’orange, the seared breast in a pool of glossy sauce and slender asparagus spears. For dessert, a creme caramel molded into a ring, surrounding glazed fruit slices. It was all unbearably beautiful and rich, the nicest single meal Trott had ever eaten. The fork in his hand was heavy. He hardly dared to lift his wine glass, feeling a bit drunk and afraid he might shatter it by accident. His cheeks were flushed, and it felt almost too warm.

By contrast, it was chilly when he got outside. Trott hadn’t worn a jacket, not wanting to hassle with the coat check at the gallery. He shivered in the breeze. Sips put an arm around his shoulders, and Trott leaned into the warmth. The town car pulled up to the curb, and Sips graciously handed Trott into the car.

“Where do you live, Trott?” Sips asked, tipping his chin up with one hand. Trott gave him the address, his voice slurred, and Sips repeated it to the driver. As the car sped through the streets towards the east side neighborhood where he lived, Sips pulled Trott’s head onto his shoulder. His arm settled around Trott’s waist, warm and solid. Trott felt his eyes drooping shut, lulled by the motion of the car and the warmth of Sips.

“Wait here for me.” Trott heard Sips talking to the driver, and he realized the car was stopped. He climbed out gracelessly, heels slipping on the cracked sidewalk. A sudden breeze gave him goosebumps, and Trott fumbled for his keys in his clutch. Sips held him by the shoulders as he opened the door to his building.

“No elevator in this place?”

“No,” Trott sighed. “Just steps.” He waved a hand, and his keys jingled.

“Do you need help getting upstairs?” Sips asked. “Come on.” He guided Trott slowly up the stairs. Tired and dizzy, every step felt like a tremendous effort. When they finally made it to the fifth floor landing, Trott sighed in relief.

“This is my place.” Trott reached out, and put his palm on the brass 5A on his door. He half turned, looking at Sips. “You-”

“Thank you for this lovely evening, Trott.” Sips took his hand again, and kissed it. The touch made Trott shiver and lean forward. Then Sips guided Trott’s hand to the lock, helping him fit the key in the door. It clicked open, the door swinging inward.

“No, thank you,” Trott mumbled. “It was- magic.”

Sips laughed softly. He helped Trott cross the threshold into his apartment. Trott swayed on his feet, watching Sips. He expected to be followed, that Sips would be quick. There was a car waiting downstairs. Trott put a hand on the counter. But Sips didn’t follow him, instead carefully shutting the door. Trott caught a last glimpse of him in the light from the hallway.

“Goodnight, Trott. I’ll see you again.”


	2. Chapter 2

Trott pulled off the soft satin sleep mask and immediately regretted it, much as he did every morning, though this time it came with one hell of a hangover. He flung an arm over his face and laid there for a long moment, feeling the warmth on his bare legs where he’d kicked the sheets away. 

The little studio had a high ceiling, and the windows were so tall he’d never gotten around to hanging any kind of curtain. They all faced south, and light slanted across his wood floor to the small sofa and the foot of his bed. It was a small place, but Trott didn’t mind not having a separate bedroom anymore. It was nicer and more comfortable than some of the places he’d stayed when he first came to the City. It was infinitely preferable to renting a room in someone else’s apartment, or living in the distant edges of the city and spending all his time in transit. This place was entirely his from the oak floorboards to the pressed tin ceiling. It was worth walking up and down the stairs every day.

Groaning, Trott dragged himself into the bathroom, leaving the door open so he didn’t have to turn on the light over the sink. His head pounded with a dull ache behind his eyes, and his stomach lurched. He hunched over in the shower, praying not to throw up all that expensive food and wine. It took a long time, and the water grew cold. But eventually his stomach settled. Trott scrubbed his face. Thankfully before he fell asleep last night he’d stripped out of his dress and washed his makeup off. The dress was still on the floor, beside his shoes. He looked at his balled up pantyhose, which probably had a run in them, and sighed. He dried himself in a towel, staring at the picture hanging on the wall. It was a cheap reproduction of an Olympic poster from fourteen years ago, a beautiful blue pool and a diver plunging into the water. It soothed him to stare at the calm colors.

For an art gallery registrar, Trott’s home collection was chaotic and unremarkable. Quite a lot of the art he enjoyed was simply outside the reach of his bank account. But there were a few pieces from smaller shows he’d managed to get, and ones he’d found in secondhand shops, even a painting gifted to him by a former lover. Trott’s favorite was a still life of pears resting in a quilt, looking like the prelude to a picnic in the summer sun. It was incredibly detailed and colorful, the quilt patterned in a dozen different fabrics, sunlight gilding the green pears. Something about it just made him happy. Trott tried to only bring home paintings that he loved. His apartment wasn’t a gallery, or meant for anyone else. 

In the tiny kitchen by the front door, Trott made coffee. Wrapped in his favorite silk robe, sky blue with red and gold chrysanthemums all over, he squinted at the clock before picking up an old pair of wire rimmed glasses from the counter. The prescription hadn’t changed in years, though the fashions did. He had other pairs for work, cute cats eyes and nice lucite ones in colors to match his outfits. 

The light on his answering machine was blinking, and the clock showed it was only 8:37am. Trott carried his coffee over to the end of the sofa and sat down. The first message was from his boss.

“Hey, Trott, I didn’t see you at the gallery. Come in a little early if you can, I need to complain to someone about this, cause I hate that Smith’s so good.” Kim laughed, and Trott could hear her take a drag from her cigarette. “You better not have skipped, there’s gonna be a quiz. See you later, alligator.”

Trott rolled his eyes, and sank back on the couch. He propped one foot on the little coffee table covered in magazines. The machine beeped for the second message.

“Hello Trott, I hope you remember me.” 

Sips’ voice startled him so much that Trott slopped hot coffee onto his bare leg. He yelped, trying to set the mug down and wipe the coffee from his leg. 

“- so I hope you don’t mind. Talk to you soon, ciao.” The machine clicked, and he realized he hadn’t paid attention to the message.

“No, no, no, go back,” Trott muttered under his breath. He stabbed at the buttons of the machine. The tape whirred as it rewound, stopping with a loud click.

“Hello Trott, I hope you remember me.” Sips chuckled into the phone, the sound low and familiar. “And that you’re not hurting too much this morning. Look, I had a really nice time last night talking with you, and I was thinking you might like to get together sometime, have a drink, maybe go out. You can reach me at the gallery, or call me at home - the number is-”

Trott scrambled for a pen, writing on the back of a copy of Vogue.

“Talk to you soon, ciao.” The machine clicked at the end of the message and Trott stared into space. He played it again, listening to the slightly rough sound of Sips’ voice. He had no memory of giving him his number, but he had apparently been a little more drunk than he thought. He hadn’t even heard the phone ring this morning. Maybe he’d called while Trott was in the shower. Was Sips hungover? Probably not. He probably ate in nice restaurants every day and drank all the time.

His stomach rumbled. Trott got up to look in the fridge. There was absolutely nothing appealing in there. A couple lemons. A container of yogurt that was probably expired. A half empty bottle of ranch dressing. In the freezer, there was only a bottle of vodka, some ice cube trays and a box of pudding pops. There was a box of Chex cereal in his pantry cabinet, and a lot of popcorn. Nothing he wanted right now. He’d stop on the way to work and get a croissant or something.

Eternally grateful that he didn’t need to be at work until after 10am, Trott got dressed slowly. He put on one of the basic black sheath dresses he owned, and his favorite red blazer with polka dots. He scrunched a bit of mousse through his still damp hair, and contemplated his lipsticks. He chose a softer red for today, and just a hint of purple for his eyelids. Trott looked at his reflection and sighed before putting on just a little more concealer to cover the dark circles. Sleeping drunk always made him feel a bit weird the next day. He slipped on a pair of thin bangle bracelets before hunting for his keys. They were on the floor under last night’s dress. Trott sighed, and put the dress over the back of a chair. He’d clean up tomorrow, he told himself. 

Trott couldn’t stop thinking about that piece of paper or the message in his machine. He decided not to clear the messages. He wanted to listen to it again later. He checked his daytime bag to make sure he had his work glasses and his wallet. 

Along the way to work, Trott stopped in the little coffee shop. It was all sleek and new, and thankfully did not have poetry nights like so many of the others. Trott bought a croissant, and coffee for work. While he waited, he stared at the bleak, minimalist artwork hanging in the shop. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. At least it went with the metal chairs and glass topped tables. 

It was a gorgeous Friday morning, one of those perfect autumn days. Blue sky like a jewel box, decorated with white clouds. The leaves just beginning to turn. Warm sunlight, cool breeze. Everything felt bright and beautiful. Trott couldn’t help but smile. He carried the tray of coffees down the block, dodging tourists and suits as he went. 

“You look way too cheerful,” Nina said when she unlocked the door of the Nano. Her long black hair was pulled back with a slender blue headband. She wore a vivid yellow blouse with giant sleeves and a sleek pencil skirt today. Nina was still in art school, perfecting her vision she said. In her free time, Nina worked at the gallery as an assistant. She was by far one of Trott’s favorite coworkers as she was both competent and pleasant. 

“Shut up and take your coffee,” Trott said with mock severity. Nina flipped him off, but accepted the cup. Trott walked back through the gallery, admiring the current exhibit of strange watercolor fish. He would be sad when this one was done. They were pretty. Too bad he couldn’t afford to buy one for himself.

Kim was in the office, her feet propped up on the desk while she flipped through a folder of paperwork for the upcoming winter show. Trott dropped his bag and kicked the door shut before setting down their coffee on the corner of the desk.

“Oh thank god you’re here, I’m drowning in all this paperwork.” Kim swung her feet down. She was wearing a bright blue skirt suit with a wide belt and sharp shoulders that gave her small frame more heft. 

Trott held his coffee in both hands.

“I didn’t see you last night,” he began.

“I know,” Kim sighed dramatically. “I didn’t get there until nine, and it was a madhouse. Can you believe, a gallery opening without the artist or the head of the gallery? That is completely mental.”

“He was there, earlier.”

“Which one, Smith? Or old Sips?”

“He’s not that old,” Trott scoffed. Kim lowered the folder and peered at him suspiciously.

“Did you talk to him?” she asked.

“He took me to dinner.” Trott couldn’t help but smile. The giddy feeling was back.

“What?!” Kim dropped the folder and swiveled to face him over the desk. “He took you to dinner? Where? Why?”

“We just started talking about one of Smith’s paintings, and he asked if I wanted to go to dinner…”

“Where did you go?”

“Ciro’s.”

_“Ciro’s?!?”_ Kim shouted. 

“I know, I know!” Trott hugged himself. 

“What are you yelling about?” Nina stuck her head in the door. She leaned on the push broom.

“Trott went to dinner at Ciro’s last night,” Kim crowed.

“Oh my god, was it delicious? Did you see Madonna?” Nina dropped the broom to the floor.

“It was amazing, and I didn’t see Madonna but there were a lot of movie stars in there.”

“Did you go home with him?” Kim asked.

“With who?”

“I did _not!_ ” Trott exclaimed.

“Really?” Kim looked skeptical, eyebrows raised.

“He was an absolute gentleman and walked me to my door,” Trott said with a sniff. He did not add that he might not have been able to get up all the stairs on his own.

_“Who??”_ Nina asked again.

“The guy who owns Skyblock.” Kim sat back in her chair.

“Whoa.” Nina thought for a moment. “Isn’t he like, _old_?”

Trott groaned and shook his head.

 

* * *

 

In the afternoon, Trott sat up front while Nina took her lunch. There were a few window shoppers wandering through, a tourist with a guidebook sticking out of her bag, but it was otherwise quiet. Kim was leading a prospective buyer around to some of the paintings. They had some assistants who mostly helped sell the paintings but Kim handled some of their older clients herself. She’d started as an assistant, and worked her way up, and those people had loyalty. Kim had built more than a few beautiful collections of modern art. 

Trott worked on the next month’s schedule, swinging one foot. The door opened, and a breeze ruffled his papers. A delivery man approached the desk, carrying an enormous vase of flowers.

“Can I help you?” Trott sat up straight, pushing the black cats eye glasses back up his nose where they’d slipped down. He wondered if this was for Kim. Sometimes her clients sent gifts. Trott liked it when they sent over boxes of chocolate best, because Kim always shared. But flowers were nice too. He had a standing order with a florist nearby to provide flowers for the gallery every two weeks. Was this an order he’d forgotten? Surely not. They always came in on Wednesdays. The lilies were still blooming on the table.

“Delivery for uh, Trott? Just the one name.” The delivery guy set the vase down on the desk, and pulled a clipboard from his belt.

“Oh.” Trott held out a hand. “That’s me, I’ll sign.” He scrawled his name on the little pad, noting the name of the midtown florist. It wasn’t one he’d seen before.

“Thanks!” The delivery guy jogged out the door, already rushing to his next stop.

Trott stared at the tall glass vase, and the profusion of roses in autumn colors. Dark reds, almost black at the edges. Golden yellow, and bright orange. It was an enormous bouquet, extravagant with dozens of flowers. He plucked the card out, pretending his hands weren’t shaking just a bit.

_ You were more beautiful than any of the paintings. When can I see you again? - Sips _

Trott sat down heavily in the chair, and took off his glasses to press a hand to his eyes.

“Those are so pretty,” the tourist said as she walked towards the door. Trott nodded. He wanted to hide his face. He felt like he was about to smile, and then maybe cry? Or laugh? He wasn’t sure. 

“It’s always so good to see you, take care. Call me when you get back into town.” Kim followed her clients to the door, exchanging kisses with the older European couple. In their severe black, they looked quite fashionable.

“Wow, what are _those_? Did you order flowers for the weekend?” she asked, coming back to the desk where Trott sat. He handed her the card, still feeling a bit stunned.

“Oh. Oh.” Kim covered her mouth with her hand. “Someone made an impression.”

“I’ve never gotten so many roses in my entire life,” Trott said bemusedly.

“You’ll have a hell of a time carrying those home.”

“I could just leave them here-”

“Oh no, those are Flowers for a Reason.” Kim set the card back on the desk. “You should take them home and stare at them while you think about where you want to make him take you to dinner.”

“You make it sound very mercenary,” Trott protested. 

“Come on, Trott.” Kim shook her head in mock disappointment. The large gold hoops dangling from her ears swung, catching the light. “One of the wealthiest men in town, with the hottest gallery, wants to take you out. Make the most of it.”

Trott brushed his fingers over a flower, the petals like silk. 

“It hasn’t even been a day.”

“Obviously he’s smitten. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t go.”

“Should I? I mean, he’s the competition and all. Is that a conflict of interest?”

_“Trott.” _ Kim came around the desk and put both her hands on his shoulders to gently shake him. “Forget about work. A guy just sent you a couple dozen roses practically begging to go out with you. When was the last time you even went on a date?”

“Ugh,” Trott sighed. “Don’t remind me.” The City was wonderful, because there were millions of people. That also made the City terrible. Trott told himself he was fine being single, it was great. But he was painfully aware that he was closing in on 30, and he was surrounded by an endless stream of new, pretty younger competition. 

“You’re thinking about Lewis again,” Kim said. There was sympathy in her expression. “Forget that rat.”

“You’re right.” Trott ran a hand through his hair. “I should go out. And it can’t be worse than Lewis.” In the back of his mind, Trott did the mental math. It was seven months now. Seven months since the longest serious relationship of his life had ended in a spectacular fight. Seven months he’d grieved, and tried to put himself back together.

“Promise me you’ll call him tonight, and then you’ll call me and tell me where he’s taking you.” Kim leaned over to smell the flowers. “God these are fantastic. Maybe I should call him if you’re gonna just mope around.”

“Alright, alright.” Trott laughed. He thought of the piece of paper on the coffee table at home, and Sips’ voice on his answering machine.

 

* * *

 

Trott sat sideways on his couch, and held the phone against his ear, listening to the dial tone. His stomach flip flopped. On the coffee table, the roses were beautiful in their glass vase. The TV flickered silently behind them. Kim had dropped him off so he wouldn’t have to walk the blocks trying not to slop water on himself. The last of the sunlight gave everything soft shadows. Trott wondered if Sips would even be home. Surely he would be at work. Maybe Trott could just leave a message.

He dialed the seven digits, wondering if this was really happening. The ringing made him jump a little, and Trott pulled his knees up to his chest.

“Hello?” Sips’ voice was deep, and he sounded almost bored. Trott gripped the plastic of the phone handset tightly.

“Hi, this is Trott-”

“Trott!” Sips’ voice perked up, becoming warm. 

“Thank you for the flowers, they’re really way too nice, you didn’t have-”

“I’m glad you like them,” Sips interrupted. “I thought about sending them to your place, but I didn’t think you’d be home.”

“No, I had to work.” Trott bit his lip. He could feel his cheeks burning. This was like being an awkward teenager, and he was embarrassed. He tried to breathe in silently and steady himself.

“Are you working this weekend?” Sips asked.

“Just tomorrow morning, a few hours.”

“Do you have plans for tomorrow night?”

Trott’s heart pounded.

“Eating ice cream out of the carton with a spoon,” he joked. “Well, grocery shopping is the only thing I have planned. I’m completely out of food.”

Sips laughed.

“What if I took you out for ice cream instead?”

“Just ice cream?”

“We could have dinner, too.”

“Mmm, that sounds pretty nice.” Trott tried hard not to sound too eager or impressed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been on dates before. He just hadn’t been on a date in awhile, not after getting his heart broken last year. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” Sips said. The way he spoke made Trott shiver. His voice poured into Trott’s ear. “You looked so beautiful, and you made me laugh. That was good. I needed that.”

“Thank you,” Trott said breathlessly. “I had a good time. I’m sorry I had so much to drink.”

“That’s alright. This time we can take it slow and steady. Talk about more than just art.” There was an undercurrent to Sips’ voice that sent a thrill up Trott’s spine. 

“I’d like that,” Trott whispered into the phone.

“I’ll pick you up at six, and we’ll get cocktails at the Belmont, and dinner at Lutece.” Sips sounded so confident, so casual. Like it was nothing to get a last minute reservation at Lutece. Maybe he had a reservation and someone cancelled, Trott thought. He was probably just filling a hole in his schedule.

“Sounds great.” Trott swallowed, trying to sound casual, like he ate at places like Lutece regularly.

“I’ll see you then Trott. Wear something pretty.” The phone clicked in his ear, the soft pause before the disconnect tone. 

Trott dropped the phone back on the cradle and reached for his bag. Buried in a side pocket was a small address book, the cover patterned with a Monet painting. He’d bought it during his first week in the City, from a museum gift shop. He copied Sips’ number in his neat writing on the top of a blank page under S. Then he quickly picked up the phone again and dialed Kim’s number. He knew that one by heart. She was his boss, but she was also one of his closest friends.

“Hello?” 

“Kim, I am going to dinner at _Lutece_ tomorrow,” Trott nearly shouted.

_“Lutece!”_ Kim shrieked. She covered the receiver, muffling her voice as she apologized to someone in the background. “Oh my god, that’s fantastic. What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know!” Trott sprawled on the sofa, feeling his dress ride up his thighs.

“What about that sparkly as shit Cassini dress you stole from me?” 

“I hardly stole it, you couldn’t get it zipped round your breasts!”

“Whatever,” Kim laughed. “It’s sparkly but it isn’t too short, you can wear it to Lutece.”

“Yeah, I might.” Trott paused, staring at the tin ceiling. “Do you think it’s alright? Should I wear something, I don’t know, a little less flashy?”

“Flashy is good. You’re young, and beautiful! Besides, all those women at Lutece will be in evening gowns for the opera.” Kim laughed again, and Trott could hear her inhale on a cigarette. She must be smoking out the window again, he thought. Must have her family around.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Speaking of dresses, we should hit them up on Monday or Tuesday, see if they have anything good in stock. Especially if you’re going to be going on dates, you need new clothes.”

“Okay, I’ll call you Sunday, and we’ll make plans.”

“You’re going to call me the minute you get home!”

“What if I go home with him?” Trott teased.

“Then call me when you get home to your home!” Kim said. Someone called for her in the background. “I have to go, dinner’s about to happen.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Bye! Don't forget to call me!”

Trott let the phone dangle in one hand as he put his feet up on the back of the sofa. He was hungry, but he wasn’t ready to get up and make microwave popcorn or walk down to the corner for take out. Tomorrow he’d be eating dinner at Lutece. He breathed in the perfume of the roses, and flung an arm over his face. 

“Too good to be true,” he muttered to himself before he rolled over to turn up the sound on the television.


	3. Chapter 3

It was hard not to spend his Saturday leaning against the window, watching every car that came down the street. Instead Trott turned on the radio and took a shower, shaving his legs with a new disposable razor. Carefully he edged around the curve of his knee, making sure not to miss the spot on the back of his thigh. He tried to be as slow and methodical as possible while he sang along to the music, his voice echoing against the pale green bathroom tiles. He liked the old fashioned bathroom, a few decades out of date. The hot water was reliable, and the floor to ceiling tile was easy to keep clean.

He pulled the sequin covered dress out of his wardrobe and debated his underwear choices. Too nice meant he was hoping for it to end in bed. Too boring would be comfortable but embarrassing if the night did go somewhere. Trott slipped on a pair of black satin underwear, and poked at his stomach. Maybe he should start going to more aerobics classes. He ripped open a new package of hose, sheer black, and curled his toes as he slowly worked them on and up his legs. He loved the crackly feeling of the hose settling against his skin, molding against the lines of his legs.

Unzipping the dress, Trott stepped into it. The sequins and silk were surprisingly heavy, but he liked the way it felt so solid once he had it on. Trott adjusted the boat neck of the top, so it just clung to the edges of his shoulders. The riotous blend of fuschia, pink and blue sequins was almost but not quite a pattern. He stepped into a pair of high heels, black with gold at the toes and the heels. They gave him a good three inches of height, and he liked being just a bit taller than average. Slowly, Trott turned around in front of the full length mirror beside the bathroom door.

“Pretty good,” Trott said to himself. His hair was still damp, and probably needed something more. He touched the roses, still sitting in the middle of his coffee table. Trott rubbed a stray petal between his fingers. He stepped over to the windows, and looked down at the darkened street. Headlights swept by, cabs and cars and mopeds. There was still some time, but Trott was anxious. It wouldn’t be real until Sips showed up.

Trott rubbed mousse into his hair to fluff it up, and did his makeup, carefully outlining his eyes and blending the purple shades of eyeshadow with a bit of shimmery grey. Rummaging through his lipsticks, he pulled out one of the frosty pinks. It was a shade lighter than the sequins on his dress. With slow swipes, Trott painted his lips. His reflection stared back at him, looking both excited and unnerved. He pushed bangles up his arm, fastened on more bracelets, then took them all off. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Was it too much, to wear so many? Should he only wear one? Or maybe no jewelry, since his dress was so very sparkling? The bracelets caught on the sleeves of the dress. Trott picked up his watch from the bathroom counter. He buckled on the black crocodile leather band, adjusting the rectangular gold and white face so it sat on the inside of his wrist. Still ten minutes to six, according to the watch’s quiet ticking. He hooked another gold chain on his wrist.

It wasn’t cold enough to warrant a coat. Trott jammed his ID and some cash into his wallet, emergency cab money in a worst case scenario, his lipstick, and grabbed his house keys. He didn’t think he needed his glasses for this. He wasn’t going to be reading more than a menu. He stuffed one of his work pairs into the bag just in case.

He was just looking around, trying to decide if he’d forgotten anything, when a short knock boomed from the door. Trott jumped and cursed, startled.

When he unlatched all the locks and the door chain, Sips stood there with one hand in his pocket. He work a dark suit, with a bright gold and turquoise silk shirt and no tie. He smiled, radiating an easy confidence.

“Ready to go?” Sips asked.

“Yeah,” Trott managed to say. He stepped into the hallway, and let his door slam shut.

 

* * *

 

In the almost ten years Trott had lived in the City, he’d been on plenty of dates. He’d eaten in all kinds of restaurants from little hole in the wall pasta places to all night diners to white tablecloth restaurants. He’d been drinking in nightclubs, in downtown bars full of men escaping their offices, in coffee shops that sold alcohol at night. He’d gone to parties in empty buildings, underground cabarets, even that one really terrible party on a boat.

None of those nights could compare to this one, he thought.

The black town car whisked them to the Belmont, where Trott sipped on an amaretto sour while Sips ordered a martini full of olives. He crossed his legs, sitting on the bar stool while Sips stood next to him. It was hard not to brush his legs against Sips. Trott wondered just how far he was willing to go. Sips was attractive, in a way. He was definitely older, but the lines at his eyes and across his forehead seemed more like signs of depth rather than wear. His eyes were bright, and his posture good.

“How did the opening go?” Trott asked. Sips looked at him, the slightest smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“You were there.”

“You know what I meant,” Trott said. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and sipped at his drink.

“Total sell out,” Sips said after a pause.

“Wow.” Trott lifted his glass and touched it lightly to Sips’. “Congratulations.” It was no small feat to sell out an entire show like that, even for a popular artist.

“People know what they like,” Sips said.

“I’m surprised you aren’t celebrating with your artist.”

“You’re much prettier,” Sips said, leaning in to speak in Trott’s ear. Trott felt a blush creep into his cheeks as a hand brushed his knee.

He paused, looking down at his drink.

“You know, being this kind of pretty takes a lot of work,” Trott began. He hated this moment of any date. It was hard to keep the nerves out of his voice. “Some people just aren’t born with it.”

Sips looked at him sideways as he took out his cigarettes. The Benson and Hedges box was edged in gold. The bartender pushed a glossy black ashtray their way as he passed, carrying a shaker full of something for a group of young investment banker types wearing suspenders and giant ties. They were noisily congratulating each other on something. Sips leaned in, so he blocked the view of them, and offered Trott a cigarette.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Trott?” Sips asked, as he flicked the gleaming gold lighter. The cigarette tasted smooth, milder than the Kools Kim smoked at work. Trott inhaled, and tipped his head back to exhale. He was conscious of Sips watching him.

“Just. I’ve never had any surgery. That’s not what I want. Or how I want to look.” Trott half wished they could have done this somewhere more private, maybe in the car. It was hard to have this conversation without being explicit. But sometimes it was easier to do it in a bar, or before dinner, just to get it out of the way in case things went sideways. He’d learned that pretty early on after coming to the City.

“So it’s just the clothes and the makeup, for you?”

“Yeah. I wanted to say before… for some people, it’s a problem.” Trott held the long cigarette between his fingers, trying to look nonchalant. He was pretty good at pretending. Please don’t let this go bad, he chanted in his head. Please just let me have this.

Sips lit his own cigarette and let it smolder in the ashtray. He smiled slightly, and fished an olive out of his drink with the cocktail sword. Another burst of laughter and high fives sounded from the investment bankers.

“A man should always know what he likes,” Sips said.

“Yeah,” Trott agreed, fighting the urge to nervously drum his heel against the bar stool. He tapped the ash off his cigarette and took another drag, looking at the lipstick stain on the filter.

“I like you.” Sips leaned in, speaking into Trott’s ear. “I like that you’re pretty, and I like you even more knowing you’ve got a dick in your panties.” He pressed his lips to the skin just below Trott’s ear before he pulled back.

Trott drew a shaky breath, and smiled at him. He could feel a blush heating up his cheeks, and relief made him weak. Sips smiled back, and clinked his glass against Trott’s.

 

* * *

 

Two drinks later, they strolled down the block to Lutece with its intimidating entrance behind tall green planters of shrubs. Trott felt giddy again. Sips was a head taller than him, and broad shouldered. When he took Trott’s hand and placed it on the crook of his arm, Trott felt delicate and beautiful. It was an enjoyable experience, especially because it happened so rarely. Sips even walked slower, matching his stride to Trott’s steps in his gold and black heels. It was hard not to just grin until his face cracked.

Inside Lutece looked like a temple, gilded and hung with gold damask drapes. Pillars flanked the doorways, pale stone shining in the soft, golden light. The large dining room was full of the murmur of conversations, and the crystalline chime of glasses, tastefully muted. A waiter brought them to a table already set for two with a multitude of glasses and forks. The maitre’d held out a chair for Trott, and he tried to sit as demurely as he could.

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” Trott admitted, picking up the heavy menu. It was entirely in French, and there were no prices. The paper felt luxurious under his fingers in the leather folio.

“Why haven’t you?” asked Sips.

“It’s not somewhere I would have come alone.”

“I don’t believe you’ve never had a date.”

Trott looked up to see Sips smiling at him.

“Well, perhaps just not one who wanted to eat here,” Trott said.

“A shame, it’s one of the best French places in the city.”

A waiter brought them glasses of champagne. He did not ask Trott what he wanted to drink.Sips ordered for the both of them, his French smooth and unhurried.

“You speak it so well,” Trott said, switching to French. He’d taken it all through high school, and managed to improve on it using it for the galleries he worked at over the years. He didn’t get to have many conversations, unless they had French clients, but he enjoyed it.

“My mother insisted we speak only French at home,” Sips said. He reached over and took Trott’s hand. “Forgive me. I haven’t told you how enchanting you look in all those sequins.”

Trott smiled. “Compliments always sound better in French.”

Sips’ fingers stroked the inside of his wrist, raising goosebumps on his skin. He let go of Trott’s hand, and Trott found himself missing the warmth of it. Lutece was cool, despite the fire in the ornate Victorian fireplace at the far side of the room.

Trott tried to alternate his drinking with his eating, reminding himself not to get so drunk he’d forget what happened. It was a luxurious and slow dinner. The parade of gold rimmed dishes brought a clear, shimmering consomme, slices of foie gras, the famous onion tart with flaky crust, a steak garnished with a side of mushrooms and glazed carrots, sole cooked in butter and herbs, a dish of perfectly tender asparagus. The cutlery was heavy in his hands, nothing like the cheap spoons and forks he had in a drawer at home. Each crystal glass held a different wine. Crisp, mineral tasting white wines, wine that tasted like peaches, a velvety red wine with the steak.

Finally there were tiny scoops of sorbet, and the waiter brought beautiful china cups of coffee and cream. The waiter placed a plate of creme bavaroise before Trott. The soft white dessert was ringed by a bright red raspberry sauce, a couple berries scattered on the plate. It melted satiny smooth in his mouth, and Trott fought the temptation to actually lick the plate.

“This is delicious,” Trott sighed. He licked his spoon, and grinned at Sips. “You promised me ice cream though.”

“A meal at _Lutece_ , and you’re on me for _ice cream_ ,” Sips said in a disbelieving voice.

“Well, you _did_ say.”

“I did.” Sips waved the waiter over, and signed the check. Trott looked away, thinking it was probably the equivalent of a week’s paycheck for him. He glanced around the room, at all the people in their elegant clothes. It was a much quieter atmosphere than the glitz of Ciro’s. The sounds of silver and crystal, the low murmur of voices, the hushed steps of waiters. Kim wasn’t wrong - most of the people here were in tuxedos and opera gowns, probably on their way to hear La Boheme again. The soft light glinted off diamonds everywhere he looked. Self consciously, Trott touched the simple bracelets he wore.

Outside, Sips offered Trott his arm. They strolled down the busy sidewalk, past the hotels. It made Trott feel that flutter in his stomach again. He hadn’t been on a date in a long time where he felt like this. He hadn’t been on a date with someone who acted with so much old fashioned courtesy either. Trott was revising his estimates of what kind of age gap was acceptable. Sips wasn’t that much older, really.

A gleaming sign promised ice cream at the newest Haagen-Dasz shop. A line of well dressed people waited inside, and others ate ice cream cones in their theater finery.

“I hear it’s good,” Sips said as he held the door.

“I’ve been to the one out in Brooklyn a couple times,” Trott said. He was glad for his heels as he peered over the heads of everyone in line to look at the menu.

Sips ordered his strawberry ice cream in a cup, but Trott decided to risk it and order a cone for his scoop of cappuccino. They sat at one of the tiny tables inside, and Sips never took his gaze away from Trott. He stared as Trott ate, watching Trott’s lips press into the ice cream, his tongue licking them clean. It made Trott squirm. What started as him feeling flirty as he suggestively licked at the cone slowly grew more and more intense. They didn’t speak as they ate. Trott felt warm, his skin flushed from the wine and Sips’ unwavering attention.

On the sidewalk, Sips slid his arm around Trott’s waist. He spoke right into Trott’s ear, his low voice raising goosebumps on Trott’s arms.

“Come home with me.” Sips’ lips brushed his cheek. Trott turned his head slightly, trying to think of how to answer. Before he could speak, Sips kissed him. He tasted like sugar. Trott clutched Sips’ arm, lips parting into the kiss. When Sips pulled back, Trott tried to catch his breath. The black town car pulled up to the curb as if summoned by magic.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it wasn’t really any choice at all. Trott knew before Sips asked that he would sleep with him. It was just how it worked, how he paid for a dinner he couldn’t afford. He’d done it many times, on other dates for men he wasn’t completely interested in. But Trott also knew he wanted to this time, that he found Sips compelling and attractive. There was something about him, the warmth of his hands and the weight of his arm around Trott’s waist, that sent a thrill right through the pit of his stomach to his groin. In the car that took them back to the midtown highrise where Sips lived, Trott was hyper conscious of Sips’ arm around him, the press of Sips’ leg against his in the back seat.

The penthouse apartment had a gorgeous two story living room, with exposed brick walls. A gallery with translucent lucite floors ran around the edge. The slender black iron railing didn’t block the light from the row of windows looking out down on the avenue below. A large, modernist chandelier hung, with geometric glass pieces encasing the lights.

Trott admired the wood floor, polished to a shine, and the sleek leather furniture. Several big pieces of art hung on the walls, and Sips had an enormous television that was bigger than anything Trott had ever seen. He craned his neck, looking up at the gallery with the bookcases between the high windows. Past the gleaming kitchen, carpeted stairs lead to the upper floor. The white walls were decorated with more carefully spaced art.

“It’s a beautiful place,” Trott said. He could hear Sips behind him, tossing his jacket onto the Eames chair by the window.

“One day I’ll trade up for one of those co-ops looking out at the park, but I really like the place.” Sips’ hands came down on Trott’s shoulders, kneading them where the wide neckline of his dress left his skin bare. Trott tilted his head to the side, and felt Sips’ breath on his neck. He kissed Trott, just under the corner of his jaw.

Upstairs, Sips pulled him into the bedroom. It was dim, the only light coming from the city outside and a single light in the bathroom glowing behind a wall of glass blocks. It felt absurd, like a dream. Trott hoped he was not so drunk he was imagining all of this.

Sips kissed the back of his neck, pulling down the zipper of Trott’s dress. He peeled it down until it slipped over Trott’s hips and to the carpet. Then Sips tugged at the pantyhose, crouching to tug them down Trott’s legs. He shivered at the feel of Sips’ mouth on the back of his thigh, teeth grazing his skin. Trott stepped out of his shoes, and let Sips pull the hose off his feet. Being undressed like this, being seduced, made him feel giddy.

Wearing only his black panties, Trott stood there in the dark bedroom. He looked at the enormous bed, wondering if Sips made it every morning or if he had a maid do it for him. Trott shivered, and felt Sips wrap his arms around him. He was warm, almost hot against Trott’s back.

Before Trott could even crack a joke about how Sips was still dressed, Sips lifted him and carried him over to the bed.

“ _Oh_!” Trott gasped, surprised at Sips’ strength. When Sips pressed him down into the bed, he moaned at the weight. It had been an entirely long since he’d been in bed with someone else. Even after the break with Lewis, Trott hadn’t summoned the energy to try finding a rebound or a one night stand to ease the ache. He’d forgotten just how much he enjoyed feeling someone next to him.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this for days,” Sips said in a low voice. Trott’s fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt as they kissed. He wanted to feel Sips’ skin on his, to be as close as possible.

Sips pinned Trott’s arms to the bed, making Trott arch up beneath him. His moan prompted Sips to laugh quietly.

“Do you like that?” he asked, lips ghosting over Trott’s face as he tightened his grip.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Sips kissed him again. This one was harder, more insistent. His tongue slid along Trott’s teeth.

“Condoms,” Trott managed to gasp when they finally stopped to breathe. He could feel Sips’ erection pressing against his thigh. He didn’t used to insist on it, but one nasty healthy scare was enough.

“Of course.” Sips opened a drawer on the nightstand, pulled out a packet of condoms and a bottle of lube. Trott rolled over against Sips’ side, stroking his hand over the bulge in Sips’ pants.

“Fuck,” Sips groaned. He wriggled out of the last of his clothes, so Trott could stroke him. In the dim light of the room, Trott could see his cock at last. It was definitely big, filling his hand with a surprising thickness.

“I want to fuck you,” Sips whispered, his lips close to Trott’s ear. Trott swallowed, both excited and nervous about the prospect of trying to fit that dick inside himself. He heard the squeak of the lube bottle. Trott hastily pulled off his underwear. He wasn’t completely sure he was ready for this, but he couldn’t stop now. He slipped a condom on himself.

Sips moved so he was sitting up against the headboard. The metal railing reflected the light from the window. Sips tucked a pillow behind himself.

“Come up here.” Sips pulled Trott closer, so his head was in Sips’ lap. “Why don’t you give it a little suck, hmm?”

As Trott licked the shaft of Sips’ cock, he fumbled for the condom packet on the other side of Sips’ legs. The chilly press of lube slick fingers to his ass made him jump. It was hard to concentrate on getting the condom unrolled properly as Sips worked a finger inside him. Moaning, Trott managed to get the condom on and began mouthing Sips’ cock.

Sips pushed in a second finger a little too soon. But he dripped more lube into his hand, and the burn of the stretch faded. Trott rocked his hips into it, losing himself in the sensation. He reached beneath himself with a free hand to squeeze his own cock, slipping a condom onto himself.

When Sips pushed him over onto his back, Trott stretched one leg up to rest on Sips’ shoulder. If he was going to take all those yoga classes, he was going to show off his flexibility. Trott breathed deep, trying to make himself relax. Even so, when Sips entered him, Trott couldn’t stop his shudder. The pressure made him tremble as Sips stretched him open.

“That’s it,” Sips murmured. He leaned forward, catching one of Trott’s wrists and holding it down. With his other hand, he guided his cock slowly into Trott.

It felt almost too intense, too much to take. Trott twisted his head to the side, eyes tightly closed as he tried to make himself breathe normally. When Sips was all the way in, he brought his hand up to grip Trott’s hip. The thrusts hurt, but they felt good at the same time. Soon the pain faded, just the ache of being filled and the shivery sensation that made Trott want to thrash underneath Sips. His hips lifted, and Trott braced his other foot on the bed to push back into Sips. It felt good to be fucked like this, the mix of gentlemanly courtesy with the rawness of sex and bodies.

“Please, _please_ ,” Trott gasped, gripping Sips’ bicep with his free hand. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Sips’ response was to hold both Trott’s arms down and fuck him faster. The sound of their bodies slapping together, Sips’ grunts and Trott’s whimpers filled the room. He ached, his cock craving more than just the accidental brush of Sips’ stomach. Trott twisted his wrists, but Sips’ hold was too firm to break.

Sips groaned, his grip tightening. With a few more thrusts, he came. Trott moaned softly as his thrusts slowed, and stopped. Trott leg his legs fall down on the mattress, trying to catch his breath.

“ _God_ , that was good.” Sips released Trott’s arms. One hand brushed Trott’s cock, making him jump. Sips leaned forward, his cock slowly softening inside Trott.

“Tell me how much you liked it,” Sips whispered.

“If felt so good,” Trott whispered back, arching as Sips stroked him. “It felt so good to be held down on the bed and fucked -” He gasped his praise, back arching, so close to an orgasm. His entire body trembled.

“You like having a man on top of you, don’t you?” Sips pulled the condom off him. Trott started to sit up, a protesting forming. But Sips pushed him back with one hand.

“I want to see you come,” Sips said. His voice was heavy, sensual and demanding. It made Trott flush in the darkness. “Come for me, _Trott,_ be good and come for me.”

It worked almost like a command, and Trott felt his body jerk. Semen splattered on his stomach, dripping over Sips’ hand. Trott closed his eyes, panting as the pleasure swept over him in a warm wave from his head to his toes.

“Nice,” Sips said, amusement in his voice. He stroked Trott a few more times, before pulling out of him. Sips shuffled down the bed, and Trott heard the snap of him pulling off his own condom.

“I should clean up-” Trott mumbled, trying to sit up and slide off the bed without dripping onto the bedspread. He darted unsteadily into the bathroom. A dim light in the shower lit the room, all black and white tile with electric blue accents. It looked like something out of a magazine, with black sinks and even an all black toilet. Trott wiped his stomach with toilet paper, making a face at the mess. He risked a quick glance at himself, naked and damp in the mirror. His hair was messy, his lipstick smudged a bit around his mouth. Trott washed it off, and then washed his whole face clean. The eyes hadow left a bit behind, stubbornly resisting and giving him a shimmery smear. For a moment, he just looked at himself, wondering what Sips saw in him.

Back in the bedroom, Sips beckoned from the bed. He was settled under the covers, and welcomed Trott in beside him. Trott let himself be pulled down, into a lingering kiss. Sips had on a pair of boxers, but he radiated warmth.

Trott sighed, his hand resting on the bedspread.

“I should go,” he said quietly. “I might need to call a cab, it’s late.”

“Stay.” Sips shifted down on his pillow, and tucked Trott’s head on his shoulder. “We can have pancakes in the morning. I make great pancakes.”

“Are you sure?” Trott whispered.

“Of course.” Sips kissed his forehead. “I want you to stay, Trott.”

There was no arguing with that. The temptation to stay was much stronger than the prospect of getting up, getting dressed and taking a cold cab ride back to his apartment to sleep in his empty bed. Trott let himself close his eyes, feeling warm and comfortable in the luxurious sheets beside Sips.


	4. Chapter 4

On Sundays and Mondays the Nano was closed except for very special appointments. But those were rare. So the next Monday Kim and Trott walked from store to store in search of new clothes. The east side was full of a mix of old, crowded shops that had occupied floors for generations, and shiny new boutiques on the lower floors of the buildings, the upper floors occupied with salons, spas and the occasional fortune teller or crystal shop. Thrift stores full of designer cast offs and last year’s purses. Shoe stores full of pumps in a rainbow of colors in the window. Young designers with tiny collections of jackets, perfect suits. Shops full of delicate lace undergarments and silk stockings. Stores with evening gowns glittering with beads and sequins. A shop entirely of leotards and leggings and headbands in acidic neon colors.

In every shop, Kim and Trott tried on clothes in the tiny dressing rooms. Kim was prepared, wearing a black bodysuit under her denim skirt that let her change quickly and easily. Her blazer was magenta and green and blue, abstract swathes of color on a black background. It was one of her favorites, purchased at a sample sale from some designer last year. 

Trott wore a pair of stirrup pants with an oversize and red button down covered in black polka dots. His wide belt was cinched low on his waist, and he wore some simple flats. Shopping required clothes easy to throw on and off, especially in cramped dressing rooms that were sometimes just curtains hung across a corner.

They took turns popping out from behind curtains to stand critically in front of the triple mirrors, laughing and chatting endlessly. They tugged at dresses, adjusted hems and straps. Trott had an extra pair of heels in his bag, to see how his legs looked in everything new. Kim frequently borrowed them, complaining about hems and the seesaw of fashionable hemlines. She made faces of disgust at the giant sweaters Trott tried on, decorated with bears. He rolled his eyes at her broomstick skirts, asking if they were for Halloween. They both tried on too many shiny aqua dresses in one store, with giant bows on the shoulders and hips. Trott shook his head at the high necked blouses with lace cuffs. Kim perused a rack of blazers despite owning at least a dozen of them already.

While Kim bought a couple new skirts, Trott browsed the display of jewelry by the counter. He touched the gleaming bangle bracelets, colored aluminum cut so they looked bejeweled. 

“You need more bracelets?” Kim asked, jingling the collection on his right wrist. The chains tangled with a strand of colorful stone beads, a rainbow of quartz.

“I kinda like these,” Trott said. He slipped a thick black lucite bangle over his hand. It had the faintest green glitter to it.

“What you have is a problem, an accessory addiction. Come on, I’m starving.” Kim waited impatiently, rocking back and forth on her toes while Trott paid for the bracelet. It hung lightly on his wrist.

The trees overhead shed red and yellow leaves on the wide sidewalks, piling onto the striped awnings of cafes and restaurants. Arms laden with shopping bags, Kim and Trott settled onto the patio of a little cafe on the end of 8th just across from a park. It was barely noon, too early for the art students to fill the benches and sprawl on the grass. A few people in suits were eating lunch, and a group of school children ignored the tour guide telling them about the history of the fountain in the center.

A waiter brought them enormous cafe au laits, tiny salads with raspberry vinaigrette, and two perfectly cooked mini quiche Lorraine. The crusts were golden and flaky, the centers creamy with melted cheese.

“God, I needed this day,” Kim said with a happy sigh. “My mom is going to give me so much shit about all this.”” She crossed her legs, resting her feet on a large bag containing three new pairs of shoes. 

“I don’t see why - it’s not like you can’t afford it.” Trott licked the raspberry dressing from his fork. 

“Because she hates all my choices,” Kim groused. “Spending too much time working, not enough time dating, then if I am dating it is the wrong man, dating the wrong woman, and I’m too old, and why didn’t I let her arrange my marriage then I could be giving her grandchildren!”

“I take it she still hasn’t forgiven you for the unpardonable crime of not having a baby yet.”

Kim groaned and stabbed at her quiche. Trott smiled, pushing his fork through the flaky pastry crust. Kim’s family life was worlds different from his experience. She still lived with them, for starters. The occupied an enormous home on the upper west side of the city, high enough to have a beautiful view in one of the older towers. Kim was the youngest, with two older sisters and a brother. They all lived in the building, apartments bought and expanded until the family occupied three floors. Trott could not even begin to contemplate how much money was involved.

Instead of using her sizeable graduation gift to buy an apartment Kim had gone to work, a decision that still mystified her wealthy parents. With her art history degree, she landed in the gallery world. Trott met her while he was still working at a fashionable gallery doomed to an early demise because of the owner’s spending habits. She was dating one of his coworkers and they all went clubbing on Saturday nights. When that gallery closed, Trott and Kim’s friendship endured. They worked together briefly at another place before Kim opened up the Nano and invited Trott to be her right hand in all the day to day operations. Two years down the road and the Nano was hitting its stride, becoming a moderately successful experiment. Trott liked to think he’d helped make that happen.

“Should we go over to Pearl’s?” Kim asked. “In the market for some new lingerie?”

Trott smiled, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Who says I need anything to wear?” He sipped at his coffee, wiping away the pink lipstick smudge on the cup.

“You always need something to wear, even if it is just the trench coat for the cab ride over,” Kim said tartly. Trott laughed, trying not to cough as he swallowed too much coffee.

“Seriously, I’ve heard all about your fantastic dinner and ice cream,” Kim continued. “How was the sex?”

The waiter cleared his throat as he picked up their plates, studiously ignoring Kim’s smirk.Trott wiped his mouth and pulled out a compact to touch up his lipstick. He pressed his lips together, studying the bright, candy pink with the glossy sheen. Kim shook a cigarette out of the pack of Kools. On the sidewalk, a girl jogged past with headphones over her ears and a walkman clipped to her bright pink shorts. She skipped around the guy walking four small dogs, and a pair of women in pastel blazers out for lunch.

“It’s good,” Trott said, turning back to Kim once he was sure he didn’t have any lipstick on his teeth.

“Just good?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow and pursed her lips around the cigarette.

“Definitely better than any I’ve had in ages. He carried me to bed. I think Lewis would have died before he did anything like that.”

“Yeah, he was about as athletic as a wet noodle.” Kim exhaled. “I didn’t know old Lovasz was hiding muscles under his clothes. I figured he’d be the kind to make you get on top, slap your ass and get you to do all the work.”

“We saved that for Sunday morning,” Trott chuckled. Kim grinned and let her head fall back. The breeze swirled a few stray leaves around their bags. It was another of those cool autumn days that felt too good to be real and never lasted long enough.

“I’m glad you’re having fun.”

“It is a refreshing change,” Trott said, his voice light. But the words were serious. It was a change, and a welcome one. Sips’ attention had halted the incessant voice in his head telling him no one would find him attractive and he’d never be loved. 

“And that he’s nice to you,” Kim continued. “Don’t let anyone treat you like crap again. You should have dumped Lewis ages ago.”

Trott sighed, and finished off his coffee. It was an old argument. Trott knew she was right. He should have dumped Lewis when the fights started, and all Lewis could do was criticize Trott for never being enough or not doing things the way he wanted. He should have seen it coming. Lewis wanted a compliant wife who would have babies on schedule and never bother him at the office, put dinner on the table and not complain about his golfing. Trott was never going to be that person.

“Come on, I need something new from Pearl’s even if you don’t.” Kim pulled a couple bills out of her wallet and tucked them into the check. She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray.

“Since when?” Trott gathered up his bags, and slung his purse over one shoulder.  “At this rate we’re going to need a cab back.”

“Well let’s say I have plans for a certain Wall Street type who is looking to start an art collection,” Kim said. She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe a private showing.”

“Now this I have to hear.” Laughing, they walked down the block arm in arm, their bags bumping against their legs.

 

* * *

 

Trott’s apartment was full of flowers. Roses spilled out of vases on the coffee table and the window sills. Elaborate bird of paradise arrangements lined his kitchen counter. There was even a vase taking up most of his tiny bathroom counter, a glorious bouquet of orange flowers. When he opened his eyes in the morning, his clock rested under a spray of brilliant white flowers. 

There were flowers at the Nano, too. An enormous bouquet of red, yellow and orange flowers took up space on the front desk, and two others were placed on pillars around the gallery. Kim teased him mercilessly, when she wasn’t demanding details over lunch or drinks after work. Nina flirted with the couriers from the midtown florists, and arranged the bouquets. Sometimes she broke off a blossom to stick in her hair, or sketched the flowers while she sat up at the front desk. Trott made her take some of them home, and Nina returned with a lovely little watercolor of fading flowers in a slant of afternoon light.

After so many years of heart break, one night stands that didn’t call, and the devastation of his most serious relationship, Trott was reluctant to commit his heart to something. The bad break up with Lewis had soured him on the idea that long term happiness was possible. He’d been serious about Lewis for more than a year, thinking they were building up to a long term commitment. When the breakup happened right before Valentine’s, Trott was devastated. The news that Lewis was out that Friday night with a girl gutted him. For the rest of winter, Trott skipped his exercise classes and spent his evenings at home curled up on his sofa watching television. Only when his favorite pants got too tight to wear did Trott finally drag himself back out of his depressive slump. He started exercising again, trying not to subsist on just ice cream and cereal. He went dancing with Nina on the weekends. But it was hard to open himself up again, or to even think about dating.

Sips breezed through his defenses, showering Trott with attention and affection beyond anything he could have hoped for. It made Trott feel like he was in a movie, like suddenly everything going was right. He could imagine himself giving a toast at dinner, that all the terrible times were worth it because they brought him to this moment. It was the cheesy sort of thing he’d roll his eyes at in a movie but now it just made him emotional.

Soon he was spending the weekends at Sips’ penthouse, often not going home until Monday. In one bathroom drawer, his things were arranged neatly by a housekeeper who wiped down the counter and put away his moisturizer and his brush and forgotten bangles. In the fridge beside the sparse groceries, there were Trott’s favorite pudding cups and granola bars. There was even fruit, something Sips seemed to find exotic and puzzling. Trott was touched that he got it, and made a point of eating it with breakfast.

The sheer number of fancy meals took a toll. His underwear felt tight, the elastic digging into his skin. Soon Trott was hitting the gym four mornings a week, trying to keep the wine and dinners and desserts from showing up in the soft curve of his stomach. He bought new leggings, shorts and shirts in varying shades of neon orange and red. Trott bought sweatbands, and a new pair of shoes for the step workouts he started doing instead of yoga. The early morning instructor was entirely too chipper, but she played plenty of Madonna so Trott could forgive her. 

On a Thursday Kim and Trott closed the gallery a little early, and walked down the block to a little bar with a good happy hour. It was decorated with a profusion of fake plants, absurd ferns and trailing vines everywhere. There were a few people at the tables, but mostly people clustered around the bar. They snagged a pair of stools at the far end. Kim pulled out her cigarettes, and they shared one with their drinks, alternating between cocktails named for sexual positions that came in various shades of pink, orange and blue. Kim leaned both elbows on the bar, the sleeves of her blazer pushed up as she smoked. She wore a bright magenta blouse, shiny as a prom dress. Trott was dressed in his basic black, a skirt suit trimmed in electric blue.

“I hardly get to see you,” Kim complained. “You’re always going out.”

“I know, we went to Grenoble last night, and Sips ordered up this wine-”

“Every time you talk about these dinners,” Kim interrupted. “He’s ordering your food, ordering your wine. You’re not some kid from the sticks who doesn’t know how to read a French menu.”

“I don’t mind,” Trott shrugged. “He knows the menus more. When have I ever eaten at Grenoble?”

“Still, it’s kind of weird.” Kim made a face. “How the hell does he know what you want to eat?”

“He’s not doing it to be weird, he’s trying to be nice. And to show off a bit.” 

“Whatever.” Kim waved her hand, and downed the rest of her drink. “Tell me, has he introduced you to Smith yet?”

“He hasn’t.” Trott took a sip of his drink, debating what to say. It was Kim, and he trusted her. Leaning in close, he dropped his voice so they had to put their heads together.

“Promise me this stays between us.”

“Promise,” Kim whispered, blowing her smoke up in the air over their heads. 

“I think something’s happened between them.”

“What? Like they’ve slept together?”

“Maybe?” Trott turned the glass in his hands, watching the ice. “I’m not sure. But he gets this look on his face when I mention Smith, almost like he’s angry.”

“Huh.” Kim took another drag and offered the cigarette to Trott. He held it delicately and breathed in, savoring the bitter taste of the smoke. 

“Like, that whole show sold out opening night, but he doesn’t seem happy about it.” Trott handed the cigarette back. 

“Maybe it’s the money.” Kim tapped away the ash. “It’s a lot, given how popular he is, and maybe he’s looking for a better deal. Or maybe he didn’t want to turn over the goods, maybe they’re fighting over what he’s going to sell.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t think I’ll get to meet him anytime soon.” Trott was disappointed by that. He loved the vibrance of Smith’s art, ever since it started showing up two years ago. The art world did too, buying up his pieces and making the unknown artist into an overnight star. 

Smith gave a handful of interviews at the very start, before he started aggressively turning away reporters. The Skyblock gallery had gone to great lengths, even filing a restraining order against a reporter from a magazine who just wouldn’t give up trying to find Smith. Pictures of him were rare - just a few taken from his first gallery show, a couple other candids that somehow made their way into the hands of the press.

At work, Trott kept a file folder of art news clippings to reference for shows and just in case they stumbled onto something exciting. He'd found the Alex Smith interview from last year in the file cabinet. There was a color photo in the Times weekend art section, an auburn haired man leaning against a brick wall in a shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of faded blue jeans. He was looking away, to something off camera. Trott thought he looked very different from the usual artists that ended up in the Times. Not quite fashionable, not slick. He seemed ill at ease with his sudden fame in the interview, dodging questions and only reluctantly speaking about his paintings. As far as Trott knew, it was the last time Smith had given an interview.  


“A shame.” Kim downed the last of her drink. “He’s cute. You could introduce me. My mother might even forget he’s a white guy if he’s famous enough.”

“I thought you swore off flaky artists,” Trott teased.

Kim waved the bartender down for another round of drinks. “I hear you like it when people order your drinks for you.”

“I don’t mind it at all,” Trott said, laughing. “Especially if you’re paying.”

“Hey, I’m not your rich boyfriend.” 

Trott pushed away his thoughts about artists and mysteries. 

“He’s taking me to the Halloween Ball,” he announced, swirling the straw in his glass.

“Get out.” Kim’s eyes widened. “What are you going to wear?!”

The Halloween Ball was one of those events with coveted tickets. Held in the family home of an ancient, wealthy philanthropist in an actual ballroom, it attracted the old money of the City with the elites of the art and literary worlds. Magazine editors rubbed shoulders with bankers and publishers and painters. Pictures of the crowd were always a major spread in the fashion magazines. Every year the Ball had a theme, and the tree lined street of old mansions was filled with limousines bearing costumed party goers. It was better than any awards show or fashion week, in Trott’s mind. 

“It’s fairy tales this year, and Sips has found a dress-”

“That he’s already picked out for you,” Kim finished with a sigh.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” Trott protested. “It is Lacroix! When in this life could I _ever_ afford a Lacroix dress?”

Kim frowned, and pulled out another cigarette from the little silver case. She tapped her lighter on the bar. Trott knew she was unhappy with him without a word.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Trott said wearily. 

“Alright, alright.” Kim snapped the lighter open. The flame was bright in her hand, the brief flare enough to light up her face. Trott could see the hint of a frown still on her face, before the light went out. 

“I do need you to help me figure out what shoes I’m going to wear. Maybe we could go shopping this weekend?” Trott couldn’t say why Kim’s expression troubled him so much. Something nagged at him, a sense of worry.

“You bet,” Kim said. She tilted her head back and exhaled. Her smile was fake, and Trott looked down at his drink. 

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.” She tapped the ashes into the glass ashtray on the bar. “I’m just concerned, I guess.”

“It’s not like Lewis or anything,” Trott assured her. “It’s just the rush you know, at the beginning. It’s fine.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m just trying to ignore it before he dumps me like all the others.” Trott tried to make it sound like a joke but there was a faint bitterness to his voice. 

“Oh, Trott.” Kim’s expression softened. “That’s not-”

“I know,” Trott groaned. Kim squeezed his arm and leaned into him. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t complain so much. I’m just jealous no one is buying me dresses. I don’t even have an invite to the Ball!” 

“Do you want me to try to find out if there’s a way to get another one?” Trott asked.

“No, no.” Kim waved the idea away. “I want you to go and have fun, and while you’re drinking fancy champagne spare a thought for me at home eating noodles in my pajamas.” She kissed the side of his head. All their arguments passed quickly, done and gone in the space of a single cigarette usually. Trott was grateful for her friendship. It made the past few years so much better. He clinked his glass against hers, and drank it all.


	5. Chapter 5

On a cool October night, Trott climbed out of the limo beside Sips into a storm of flashbulbs and lights. He clung to Sips’ hand, trying to find his footing on the uneven pavement and gather his dress so it didn’t catch in the car door. When Trott looked up, he was surprised by the crowd. People shouted and jostled, photographers and gawkers lined up to see people enter Marjorie Astor Cohen’s annual Ball. A mix of police officers and security guards stood along the sidewalk and the barricades. 

The limestone mansion with a blue slate roof loomed up in the night, something out of another century that rebuked the metal and glass towers further south in the City. Trott had looked at these mansions from the outside so many times, but never imagined being inside one. An actual red carpet covered the steps up to the historic mansion’s double doors, and the railings were covered in garlands of flowers. Jack-o-lanterns, with classic childish cut out faces, flanked the door on two stone pedestals. 

Sips wore a beautiful 18th century style suit, the dark blue silk velvet embroidered with gold and silver. His silk shirt was gleaming white, and his tight  white pants were tucked into knee high boots with their tops turned down to reveal a bright red lining. He’d skipped the costume wig, wearing only the gold trimmed tricorn hat. His mask was something like a wolf or a lion, some chimerical beast. The muzzle bared teeth in a snarl, making him look menacing. Sips’ eyes were bright behind the mask.

Beside him, Trott glanced around in excitement and trepidation. His gown clung to him, slowing his usually quick steps. The heavy gold brocade, embroidered with thousands of glittering black and white beads and sequins, made him shine. The bodice was tight, corset laced in the back and cut straight across the top, the short cap sleeves baring his shoulders. The layers of underskirts and crinolines puffed the dress wide, for once giving Trott more than the illusion of hips. Trott was glad he’d picked the high heels, shining silver shoes. It kept the long dress from dragging the ground. 

His arms felt naked without his usual bracelets. But Sips insisted, in his way, by providing the jewelry to go with the dress and supervising Trott’s preparations. Around his neck, a black velvet collar studded with colorful stones. Diamond drops hung from his ears, swaying with every move. Trott had trembled a little as Sips put them on him, surprised that they were real and not paste gems. Combs held his hair back, adorned with diamond flowers glittering against his fresh blond dye job. He’d gone to the salon with Nina earlier in the week to touch up his roots and get his hair trimmed. His eyes were lined in blue black, the shadow over them a bright, shimmering blue. A lace mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving him free to apply a ruby red lipstick that was one of his favorites. Trott only ever wore this color for very special occasions. It had a glossy shine to it, bringing light to the dark red shade that would be too much in almost every moment but this one. 

Photographers shouted Sips’ name as they walked toward the steps. Trott thought he heard someone call out something about Smith. He was blinded when he glanced at the crowd of people behind the barricade on the sidewalk. His vision was clouded with spots from all the lights. But Sips never broke stride and Trott was forced to keep moving as well. They climbed the stairs, and two uniformed servants opened the doors for them. 

Trott prided himself on having a certain blithe attitude, on having shed the wide eyed stares of his first year in the City. It was a real place to him now, instead of a dream and images found in the library. But it took all his self control not to gawk at the enormous wood and metal doors, or the reception room where a tall woman in a black suit scrutinized Sips’ invitation and checked him against a list. Wide marble stairs, cordoned off with a velvet rope, led up somewhere into the house. At the top of the staircase, a larger than life portrait of the woman who built the mansion looked down at the guests. In a black dress decorated with silvery lace, Caroline Astor clasped her hands and watched with oil paint eyes the crowds that still came to her house. Almost eighty years after her death, it was still considered the most important social place in the city for a certain kind of person. Trott had never imagined being that kind of person. He wondered what Caroline Astor would say about this crowd. She found theme parties vulgar in the biography he read about her. Would she be vexed? Or would she be pleased that her ballroom was still the hub of moneyed City society?

A coat check girl was helping a woman out of a voluminous white fur coat, her plumed headdress of feathers hung with ropes of pearls. Trott thought he recognized her as one of the designers that Kim liked. Behind her trailed four younger men, all dressed in white leather. Trott half expected them to lift the woman up and carry her. They paraded past the stairs, and into the party. 

Inside, there were recognizable faces here and there, but so many of the people attending wore masks of some kind. Not that he knew any of them well enough to walk up and say hello. Everyone was dazzling, and the gilded rooms were crowded. The faint sound of music carried through the laughter and conversations. Trott let Sips pull him along, glancing at the paintings hanging on the walls in their ornate frames. It was like being inside a museum, but much, much noisier. Someone dressed as a wolf passed them by, and the fur brushed Trott’s bare arm. Red Riding Hood followed, swinging a picnic basket, and he winked at Trott before chasing after the wolf. 

Some of the costumes were recognizable, but Trott didn’t know what to make of the women who dressed like she was death personified. Her black gown dragged the floor, the layers ragged with lace. Every bit of her exposed skin was powdered white, except for the black shadow painted from her brows to under her eyes. When she smiled, the white curve of her lips was unsettling. Past her, a man lumbered by in an actual suit of armor. It looked heavy and uncomfortable, and Trott wondered how he could even see out of the slits in the helmet. 

A crowd formed around a bar set up in the dining room, in front of the famous black marble fireplace. A pair of smiling bartenders dispensed drinks, while someone ran endlessly to and fro with buckets of fresh ice. Waiters carried trays of champagne and wine through the crowd. On the tables, heavy silver candy bowls held nuts and chocolates. Trott wanted something to eat or drink, but Sips didn’t seem to hear him. A woman in skirts much larger than his, a rococo fantasy of a princess dress covered in gold lace, swished past. Her mask had a unicorn horn rising above her crimped and teased hair. Trott counted princesses as they walked. It was so loud, he didn’t even try to talk with Sips, who seemed intent on finding something or someone in the crowd. He tugged Trott along, gripping his arm by the wrist. They wound through the crowds, Sips pushing his way between revelers without a backward glance. Soon they were in a long gallery, windows looking out toward the garden. People were clustered in small groups along the space. The noise was slightly more subdued here, allowing for conversation.

“Barry, how are you?” Sips smacked his hand on the shoulder of a man in a black robe, his long hair wild about his shoulders and a pointed wizard hat sitting crookedly on his head. The group of men all seemed to be dressed as some sort of wizards, complete with ridiculous fake bears, staffs, wands and colorful clothes. They roared greetings, reaching for Sips. The wine glasses in their hands were already empty, and judging by their shouts not their first ones either. Trott waited uncertainly, but Sips did not introduce him. He leaned in, laughing heartily at someone’s joke. 

Trott turned, watching people and trying to pretend like he knew what he was doing here. A waiter handed him a glass of champagne, and Trott decided to wander. He knew no one here aside from Sips. So many of them were in masks and elaborate costumes, he wasn’t sure he’d recognize a famous person if he did see them. He passed an older woman in a wheelchair, wearing a shining mermaid tail, pushed by a young man dressed as a prince complete with a golden circlet around his forehead. Two couples dressed as children passed, wearing lederhosen and dirndls. They carried baskets of gingerbread cookies. Trott saw at least three Cinderellas. He wondered if their shoes were really glass, or plastic.

Trott found his way to the edge of the great ballroom he’d read about countless times when daydreaming of the City as a child. It was one of the largest ballrooms ever built in a private home, and the ceiling soared four stories overhead. It was painted a pale sky blue, and the carved marble pillars held up the corners. Balconies ringed the upper reaches, allowing people to admire the many paintings and watch the dancers below. Four enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, decked with glittering cut crystal drops. It was warm inside, the heat of so many bodies filling the air with perfume, champagne and sweat. 

There was a tiny empty chair and Trott carefully perched on it, trying to keeps his skirts out of the way of people passing by on their way to dance. He was surprised there was actual dancing, couples waltzing around beneath the glittering lights along the beautifully polished wooden floor. At one end of the room, a group of musicians played in a small balcony. 

Another passing waiter took his empty glass, and Trott folded his hands in his lap. He wished Kim was here, or even just someone he recognized. It was beautiful, but Trott felt a bit lonely while Sips spent his time talking business and catching up with people he knew. He wondered if Sips had even noticed he was gone yet.

“Would you care to dance, my lady?” a voice asked. Trott glanced up at a blond man dressed in green. He wore thick leather bracers on his arms, and a moss colored jacket over a leather vest. His leather pants clung tightly to show off his legs. His fox mask was startlingly realistic. It was made of real fur, a bright reddish orange edged in white. Beneath the snout, his smile was as white and gleaming as a television weatherman.

“Robin Hood, really?” Trott smiled. There was something whimsical about the costume, compared to the very serious, fashionable looks many of the other guests wore.

“They made me leave my bow in the coat check,” Robin lamented. “But you recognized me anyway!”

“Well everyone loved that cartoon, didn’t they?” Trott had watched it on television once, a very long time ago.

“But who are you?” Robin asked, holding out a hand. “Surely a princess come to grace us with your magnificent presence.”

“Just an ordinary girl, in an extraordinary place,” Trott answered. 

“But what should I call you?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to give his name, but Trott just smiled with his lips closed.

“A mystery then,” Robin said with another wide smile. He bent forward and kissed the back of Trott’s hand. 

“A mystery,” Trott agreed. It might be fun, and he’d never see this man again. There wasn’t any reason to say no. Sips was probably still talking about the stock market. Once dance wouldn’t hurt.

Trott followed Robin to the dance floor, and took his hand. Robin’s other hand settled on Trott’s waist, pulling him a bit closer than strictly necessary. They danced slowly, and Trott hoped he seemed like he knew what he was doing. He danced in night clubs, but never like this. It was intimate, despite the crowd. The music carried through the room, amplified by some secret acoustical trick. 

“How are you liking your first time at the Ball?” asked Robin, as he carefully spun Trott around the room.

“Who says it is my first?”

“I’d remember someone so lovely,” Robin said. Trott laughed. He glanced around at the other dancers. They drifted past, swirls of color and masks. It was a bit like being in a dream, or in that movie he’d seen over the summer with Nina where a girl danced in a ballroom with a host of faerie nobility and the king of goblins. Nina had swooned endlessly after the movie while they drank milkshakes in a late night diner. Trott had never imagined he might actually find himself in a magical ball.

“Is Robin Hood a fairy tale?” Trott asked, turning back to his dance partner. “I thought that was one of those legends that grew from something real.”

“Who is to say,” Robin laughed. “But in this city, anyone like Robin Hood is definitely a fairy tale.” 

Trott rolled his eyes. They continued to sway to the sound of the music. A woman dressed as a swan passed, her dress covered in bright white feathers. A couple wearing masks of wolves swept by and Trott watched them. They danced with incredible ease, as if they’d waltzed every day together for years. He felt a pang of envy at the way they moved.

Robin tried to guess Trott’s profession, suggesting absurd flatteries like model or ballerina. Trott shook his head every time, laughing. The music ended, and Trott dropped his partner’s hand. Robin kept a hand on his waist though, trying to draw Trott closer. He was smiling that bright, perfectly white smile. But before he could speak, a heavy hand snagged Trott’s elbow causing him to stumble sideways. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Sips said, pulling Trott closer. He stared at Robin, his eyes cold behind his mask.

“Thank you for the dance,” Trott said quickly. “I appreciate it. Have a good night.”

Robin took his hand off Trott, eyes flicking from Sips to Trott. “Of course. I see your Beast has come to claim you.”

Sips took a step forward, and Trott put both hands on his arm. The anger in Sips’ expression frightened him a bit, the way his mouth was a thin slash and the tension in his posture.

“That’s him, and I’m the Beauty, it is perfect, don’t you think?” He talked fast, anxious that something ugly might happen, that people might stare if this continued. Already dancers were beginning for the next song, and Trott just wanted to get out of the way before anything happened.

Robin stepped back, bowing at the waist before he strode away between the dancers. Sips dragged Trott out of the room, his grip almost painful. His quick strides forced Trott to walk faster, trying not to fall in his heels or get tangled in his skirts. They passed into more of the crowded rooms where people admired the art collections, chattering away. No one paid any attention to them.

“Who was that?” Sips asked, leading Trott to one of the terraces that opened onto the house’s garden. It was full of formal paths, a fountain and a little gazebo. It looked out into a stretch of park the split the city blocks.

“Robin Hood, I think.” Trott glanced around. There were few people outside here, just a few smokers gathered at the railing, the smell of tobacco and cloves in the air. Here they had a small amount of privacy.

Sips lips thinned in another frown, and he jerked Trott’s arm.

“Don’t be coy. Who was that?”

“I don’t know!” Trott tried to pull his arm away. “Just some guy who asked me to dance.”

“You shouldn’t have wandered off.”

“You were talking,” Trott said, aware of how petulant it sounded. “I didn’t want to interrupt whatever business that was.”

“People always want to talk about work.”

“And Smith, especially.”

“Especially Smith,” Sips repeated. He let Trott go finally, and took a deep breath. He pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket.

“He had his hands on you,” Sips grumbled as he lit one.

“He was a poor flirt, that’s all.” Trott didn’t know whether to laugh or be appalled at the display of jealousy. He leaned in close to Sips, trying to soothe his burst of temper. “It’s good you arrived when you did, I was trying to figure out how to get away.” 

Sips put his arm around Trott’s shoulders, smoking and frowning at nothing. Other couples wandered beneath the lanterns strung about, and the sound of music carried from the ballroom. A pair of women dressed in velvet tunics and gold cloaks leaned against the terrace railing, kissing. Trott leaned into Sips’ warmth, wondering what provoked this sudden jealousy. The tightly laced dress made it hard to take a deep breath, and his feet ached in the heels.

Something was different after that moment. Sips kept Trott close, often with a hand on him or an arm around his shoulders. Trott would glance up, and find Sips looking at him with an inscrutable expression. It made Trott feel slightly nervous, so he drank more and more glasses of champagne.

They returned to one of the drawing rooms, the high ceilinged space filled with paintings on every inch of the walls. Generations of collectors in the family had contributed to the portraits that looked down on them from gilt frames. It was here that they finally encountered the hostess of the Ball.

Marjorie Astor Cohen was dressed as some kind of dark queen, her high lace collar rising up her neck to frame her face. Her white hair was curled and piled into an elegant bouffant. The lights glinted off her tiara, the gems as red as Trott’s lipstick. Her black and silver dress had long bell sleeves, a full skirt, and pushed her breasts up practically to her chin. Her presence made ripples in the crowd. Trott had only ever seen her in the newspapers, the famed Park Avenue hostess who supported various artistic and charitable causes with her vast, inherited fortune. Marjorie had outlived two husbands and decided not to risk a third. Instead she did as she liked.

“Sips, where have you been hiding all evening?” Marjorie called out, swanning forward to take Sips’ hand. Her voice was a loud as a bell, full of confidence and delight. It startled Trott slightly. He’d not heard anyone call Sips by his nickname, and he’d started thinking it was something private.

“Plotting how to steal your art like usual, Majorie.” Sips took her hand, bent his head over it to kiss it gently. She wore an enormous ruby ring, and her wedding rings on both hands.

“Hiding with your pretty young thing, I see.” Marjorie's bright eyes focused on Trott. She smiled slightly, and it gave her dimples.

“This is Trott.” Sips put a hand in the small of his back, pushing him forward.

“So lovely,” Marjorie said, reaching for Trott’s hand. “How are you dear?”

“Having a wonderful time, thank you.” Trott wondered if he should curtsy or something. Up close, he could see how smooth Marjorie’s face was and all he could think was it must take a lot of money to stay beautiful as long as Marjorie had done. Her first husband died during the last world war. The second one had been dead almost as long as Trott had been alive. She had a few crows feet at the corners of her eyes, but her face was radiantly frozen at an unguessable age.

“Tell me, where is he?” Marjorie asked, turning back to Sips. “I haven’t seen him. I’d hoped to find him with you.”

“Oh Marjorie, you know how it is, they never turn up when they’re expected.” Sips chuckled. 

“I thought maybe,” she sighed. She patted Trott’s arm. “Not that you aren’t a peach, dear, but I wanted to see Alex Smith.”

“I let him know he was invited,” Sips said. “But he doesn’t go out, you know that.”

“There’s something so romantic about a reclusive artist.” Marjorie lifted her hand, and a servant handed her a small clutch. “I really wish I could visit his studio, to see where he paints those pictures.”

“You and me both.”

“But haven’t you been? That warehouse loft, wasn’t it?”

“He’s moved into a new place,” Sips said, his voice deliberately casual. “Said people keep disturbing him, and he wanted a bit of space to work. You know, the usual sort of nonsense artists throw around when they just want to drink in peace.” Trott glanced at him. This was more than he’d heard about Smith in the time they’d been together.

“How delightfully secretive!” She removed a slim leather case from her clutch, and a pen. “Perhaps he keeps a lover there with him. His pieces are so passionate, I wouldn’t be surprised. Some handsome boy, or a pretty girl. Maybe both.”

Sips laughed along with her. But there was a tightness in his expression. Trott wondered why. What could Smith be hiding that he hadn’t even let Sips see? The interviews Sips gave made it sound like they were close, more friends than just gallery owner and artist. Trott burned with curiosity. He knew he’d end up telling Kim.

“I heard there was a dispute with the painting Semyon Markov wanted to buy this week,” Marjorie said. “That one with the bright green and yellow splashes, was it? From the new show?”

“Apparently his accounts are all frozen while that investigation happens.” Sips shrugged. “Securities fraud, or something to do with stocks, who knows.”

“But you still have the painting?” Marjorie’s gaze was sharp, inquisitive.

“I never send them until the check clears,” Sips chuckled. “First rule of business.”

“Good. I want to buy it.” She filled out a check, her pen scratching lightly across the paper. Tearing it out, Marjorie handed it to Sips. He raised his eyebrows slightly.

“That’s generous, Marjorie, are you sure?” 

“Tell that boy I want him to come visit and have tea. That’s what they think old women do with their free time. But we could have whiskey instead the way you and I do.” She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. They both laughed, as if it was an old joke. Trott wondered how Sips had met Marjorie and how often they drank together. The longer he watched them, the more it seemed like they had a history. Sips tucked the check into the breast pocket of his jacket with a smile.

“I’ll do my best to try to get the ungrateful artist into your home.”

“Good.” Marjorie smiled, beatific and pleased. “Please send the painting as soon as the check clears, I want to hang it in my dressing room.”

Sips leaned in, kissing Marjorie on the cheek. “Just for you, I’ll have someone deliver it Monday morning.”

“Thank you, dear.” Marjorie turned to Trott and offered him a cheek kiss as well. “You watch yourself with this one, he has a reputation of being free with his hands.” She smelled of Chanel No. 5, as expensive as the gems in her jewels and the silk of her dress. The hovering servant took her checkbook and clutch silently. Trott watched her move along the room, greeting her guests. People invariably smiled to see her, drawn in by the magnetism of her presence. 

“How do you know her?” Trott asked, unable to stop watching her.

“She’s a customer,” Sips said. It was the nonchalance of his voice that made Trott glance back to him. 

“Just a customer?” He felt his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Sips regarded him steadily. He was almost, but not quite smirking as he leaned his head close to Trott’s.

“A gentleman would neither confirm nor deny,” he said quietly in Trott’s ear. The way he spoke, his lips so close to Trott’s skin, made him somehow utterly sure that at some point Sips must have slept with Marjorie Astor Cohen. Trott reeled at that piece of gossip. He knew he could never, ever tell anyone but at the same time the idea filled him to bursting. He desperately wished Kim was here with him. She would never believe it.

They lingered a little longer, and Trott drank too many glasses of champagne while they admired the paintings that covered almost every single wall. It was nearly midnight but the crowd had not lessened. If anything, there were more people. A group of girls who looked like fashion models wearing diaphanous gowns in a rainbow of colors clustered around a low sofa where a well regarded fashion designer lounged in a red velvet suit. His golden crown was askew as he laughed at some joke. None of them noticed the paintings over their heads.

There were fewer people crowding the barricades this late, but a handful still lurked on the edges. A cop pushed a few photographers out of the street before they were run over by the limousine pulling up to the curb. Sips looked straight ahead, not acknowledging any of them as a few called out his name. But Trott couldn’t help glancing over at them. He hoped his makeup wasn’t smudged, and that he didn’t look as drunk as he felt. 

“Smile, sweetheart!” someone shouted, and there was another staccato flash. While the spots cleared from his eyes, Trott focused on one of the men standing by the barricade. He wasn’t holding a camera like the rest. He was tall, with dark hair and a pale face. Trott wondered why he was there. He just stood there, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. Sips tugged on his arm, but Trott couldn’t look away from the stranger watching them. His last glimpse was the man leaning on the barricade to watch them drive away before he was enveloped in the plush darkness of the limousine. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader discretion advised - this chapter contains a very emotional scene involving kinky sex that is not 100% consensual. It might be upsetting. Always practice safe sex and talk with your partners before about your limits and your comfort.

Trott’s heels clicked on the stairs, the sound loud in the soft hush of Sips’ place. His dress rustled as he wearily climbed to the second floor. His knees ached, and there was a rawness to his toes that meant they might be blistering. He kicked his shoes off on the carpet, leaving them behind as he slowly stumbled to the bathroom. He was exhausted, and ready to pass out, but first he needed to wash his face and take off all the jewels. Watching himself in the mirror, Trott carefully removed the diamond earrings. They nestled back in the velvet lined box, alongside the choker. He wondered what it cost to rent jewels like that. 

“Should have worn a different mask,” Sips said. Trott jumped, startled by his voice. 

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Trott unfastened the delicate mask, letting it fall to the counter. “And which one of us should have worn something different? I thought we looked incredible.”

Sips leaned against the door frame, watching Trott in the long mirror. He’d discarded his mask somewhere already. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, and pulled off his jacket to toss on the counter.

“Put this one on instead.” From the pocket of his coat, Sips pulled out a piece of scarlet leather. When he unfolded the mask, a cord dangled from the laces along the back. 

“Have you been carrying that around all night?” Trott asked, surprised. 

Silently, Sips held it up to him. The mask was made for the lower half of the face. Inside, there was a small square of leather, about the size of a large marshmallow. Trott opened his mouth to ask another question, and Sips pushed the square into his mouth.

“Bite down,” Sips demanded. Trott tasted the leather on his tongue. The gag was stiff, and he couldn’t quite entirely close his teeth together. It was like having a slightly too large mouthful, but it wasn’t overly uncomfortable. Sips smoothed the mask to Trott’s face and neck.  It felt as snug as a glove, the leather soft and supple. Trott shivered.

Sips plucked the jeweled combs from his hair, and lifted the center strap. It split over his nose, then went over the center of his forehead and buckled to the back of the mask. Sips pulled the laces tight, just as he’d done with the laces on the back of Trott’s dress earlier in the evening.

Trott stared in the tall mirror, surprised by how he looked with the mask covering his throat and half of his face. The red was bright against his skin. His nostrils flared, and Trott tried to control his breathing. It was difficult. His reflection spread nervous hands out on his the skirt of his dress, watching his chest rise and fall. The beads on his dress shivered, reflecting the light over the sink.

“And now the beast takes his princess back to his castle.” Sips lifted Trott easily, surprising him with his strength. Trott yelped, and the sound was choked by the mask. Sips carried him into the bedroom, which was dark except for the perpetual night glow of the city. He tossed Trott onto the bed, where he bounced slightly. A part of Trott’s mind worried about the dress, the unbearably expensive dress, getting damaged. He struggled to sit up, but Sips was on top of him in an instant. 

“The beast would fuck you like a beast,” Sips murmured in Trott’s ear as he rolled Trott over. Before Trott realized what was happening, the handcuffs were already locked onto his wrists. He was cuffed to the bed, face down. Sips reached underneath his dress, pulling down his hose and the silk underwear Trott bought just for this night.

The dress was heavy, ruched up on his back. The lacing was still firmly tightened, constricting him. Trott moaned quietly, feeling a bit dizzy from the champagne and everything making it harder to breathe. He felt Sips straddle his bare legs, hands squeezing his ass. A finger probed his hole, and pushed in abruptly. Trott groaned. He heard the snap of the lube bottle. This time Sips’ fingers were slick. He was rough, forcing two fingers in at once. Trott cried out at the burn and stretch. The leather mask silenced him, and Trott realized with some panic there was no way for him to tell Sips to stop. He was gagged. His hands were restrained over his head, locked to the bed frame. He tried to wriggle and push Sips away. But it was futile. Sips pinned him down, unperturbed by his struggles. Trott could hear his harsh breathing.

When Sips thrust himself into Trott, Trott screamed. It felt good, but it also hurt. It was too much, too soon. Sips fucked him roughly, leaning his full weight into Trott. Pinned against the mattress, Trott couldn’t do anything to stop it. He could hear Sips’ grunts, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed. Trott felt dizzy, struggling to breathe as he was fucked from behind relentlessly. It was hard to catch his breath. All he could smell was the leather of the mask. He felt drool trickling down his chin, soaking into the leather.

The pain faded to a bearable level, and Trott found himself hard. Sips’ thrusts shook his body, giving him a little friction against the bed. Trott couldn’t move much. Sips’ hands gripped his hips so tight Trott knew there would be marks in the morning from it.

Sips came, and let himself collapse on Trott. For a moment, Trott panicked, struggling to breathe under his weight. Then Sips rolled to the side with a satisfied grunt as he pulled out. Something wet trickled down the inside of Trott’s thigh. 

They laid there for a moment. Trott tried to calm his racing heart. He felt shaky, still hard despite the ache in his body. The roughness of it frightened him a bit, and he still couldn’t quite catch his breath. The gag and the tightly laced bodice were smothering him. 

“My beautiful princess,” Sips murmured in his ear. “All mine.” He rolled Trott over. The motion twisted his arms, so now his wrists were crossed over his head. Trott felt the strain in his shoulders. He whimpered, trying to force the gag out of his mouth. But it was fastened so firmly. All he could do was chew on the gag and drool, try to make sounds. Sips kissed his mouth through the leather, then pressed his lips to Trott’s forehead.

“You liked that, didn’t you princess?” Sips put a hand between Trott’s legs, fondling him. “You’ve wanted it all night.” His cock throbbed, and Trott couldn’t help but whimper again. Despite the rough fuck, he was still aroused. He felt ashamed somehow, as if his body betrayed him by enjoying this. His head swam, the confusing sensations of pain and pleasure filling him moment by moment.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you.” Sips shifted down the bed. His mouth enveloped Trott’s cock, making him arch up from the bed. It was so wet and hot, tongue laving against his skin. For a moment it was exquisitely good, and Trott forgot about how bad the sex was before.

Before he had too much chance to enjoy the unexpected pleasure of the blow job, Sips thrust something inside him. Trott wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was hard, and cold. As Sips sucked his cock, he fucked Trott with the object. It stretched him, poking at the sore places inside, filling him again almost uncomfortably. The pressure of Sips’ mouth, tongue sliding up the underside of his cock, almost distracted him. It was just too much, too many sensations at once. He could barely breathe, he needed a moment to collect himself.

Trott screamed into the gag, the sound so disappointingly small. If Sips heard it, he didn’t respond.  His body pinned one of Trott’s legs. In spite of the pain, or perhaps because of it, Trott came. He felt like he was going to black out, and his entire body shook. Perhaps he did faint. The next thing he knew, Sips was unfastening the handcuffs. He pulled Trott into his arms so he could peel off the heavy dress. It took so long to unlace him in the dark, and pull the dress over his head. But Sips left the gag on, and held Trott’s wrists to his chest with one hand so Trott couldn’t even try to pull it off himself. He leaned against Sips, letting himself be undressed like a doll. He closed his eyes against the dark. Beside him, he felt Sips shift around as he pulled off his own costume.

Trott trembled, teeth digging into the gag as his jaw clenched. He couldn’t seem to stop shaking, and it bothered him. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He didn’t know if this was normal. Why was he crying? It hadn’t hurt that badly. He’d come, hadn’t he? Didn’t that mean he liked it? Was this because he got drunk? Trott couldn’t get ahold of himself, and it made him feel a bit panicked.

“My beautiful princess,” Sips murmured. “God, you’re so beautiful, I fucking love you.” He stroked Trott’s face, rubbed a hand down his back. His words slipped into the storm in Trott’s head, startling him into a sort of daze. Had Sips just said love? Neither of them had said that before. Did he mean that? Love? Slowly he relaxed into Sips, feeling all the tension leave his body. The ache remained in places, but he ignored it. Trott tried to concentrate only on the warmth, where his skin pressed to Sips’ skin.

Sips untied the lacing of the gag, finally peeling it back so Trott could spit out the leather bit. Sips kissed him, his tongue sliding in easily. It was easier than trying to talk, Trott thought. Sips held him, stroking his hair, combing through it with his fingers. Shivering, Trott clung to him as Sips murmured endearments and kissed him again. _He said he loved me_ , Trott thought, clinging to the thought as he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Trott showered alone while Sips stomped down the stairs for coffee and aspirin. He let the water pour over him for long minutes, taking mouthfuls and spitting them out. His ass ached, and the skin felt raw. His thighs itched where the come had dried on his skin, and there was a bit of dried blood. Trott pretended he didn’t see it. He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the glass block wall. The blisters on his toes stung. He washed himself with his eyes closed. The washcloth was too rough, so he just poured some of the liquid soap into his hands. It made the shower smell like grapefruit.

After he rinsed his hair, Trott watched the lozenge of light creep down the wall from the skylight. It was hard to imagine it was an ordinary, sunny Sunday outside. He felt out of sorts and strange. Like it should be as cloudy outside as his thoughts felt.

He knew Sips hadn’t meant to hurt him. It was an accident. It was like getting hurt at the gym. You didn’t blame the step if you missed it, or the instructor if you fell down. It was your own carelessness, your own weakness. Trott switched off the water, hoping that if he just moved the tears might go away. Last night things just got too rough. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. His breath caught in his throat, a tightness like he couldn’t breathe. 

Trott stared into the mirror, willing himself to calm down. His eyes were a little red, but that might have been the hangover from the champagne. There was nothing wrong with his face. The gag hadn’t left any marks where it pressed over his mouth. He splashed cold water on himself in the sink. In the mirror, he looked at the bruises. A red line on his neck from the lacing of the gag. The marks on his wrists were swollen and looked worse. He traced the doubled lines. On his hips, there were other bruises like splotchy fingerprints. He wondered how it was possible to hold on so hard. 

It wasn’t so bad, Trott told himself almost angrily. He was being ridiculous, getting upset about it. They both had too much to drink, got too rough. It was just a thing that happened. He needed to get it together.

To settle himself, Trott practiced smiling in the mirror. At first it looked like he wanted to cry, and he had to turn away and scrub his face with the towel. It took him a few tries to get it right, so that his mouth didn’t tremble and his eyes didn’t well up. He found a bottle of Visine in the bathroom drawer, and blinked away the sting of the eyedrops. At least they would take out some of the redness.

_God you’re so beautiful I fucking love you_ , Trott thought. He repeated Sips’ words to himself again and again. They were a mantra against the bad thoughts, the panicky sensation of tears. 

In the bedroom, Trott paused. The dress was draped over the chair by the window, the underskirts on the floor. His hand hovered over it as he wondered if he should try to hang it up and make certain nothing was torn. Trott couldn’t quite make himself do it. He told himself that the maid would take care of it, or maybe even Sips. He walked past it, towards the bed. 

On the bedside table were the handcuffs, the gag, and a glass dildo. He stared at it, trying to imagine it inside of him. It looked too large. It was only then that Trott realized the condoms on the table were still in their packages. Sips hadn’t used one last night. Emotions tumbled through him, surprise and fear and a rush of warmth. His eyes prickled again. Was it just careless? Was it is a sign of commitment? Trott didn’t know. He didn’t know how to feel about it, or what to think. His head throbbed.

_God you’re so beautiful I fucking love you_. Trott closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

His expensive silk panties were on the floor where Sips dropped them last night, the amber fabric bright against the pale blue carpet. Trott stepped into them, pulling them up and wishing he had a pair of sweatpants here. He wrapped himself in one of Sips’ robes in the walk in closet. There was something reassuring about the heavy terry cloth, the softness of the cotton.

The smell of coffee drifted up from the kitchen. Sips would explain things, Trott thought. It would be alright. He could hear Sips, on the phone with someone, pacing around from the kitchen to the rooftop patio. It sounded like business, something to do with the gallery. He remembered Marjorie. It was probably about the painting. Trott was a little bit envious. He’d dropped hints about wanting to meet Smith ever since they started seeing each other, but nothing came of it. Sips was probably on the phone making Smith go see Marjorie today, since she was such a wealthy client. He sighed, pulling the belt tight around his waist. 

Trott put a smile on his face, and walked downstairs. It was just an accident, he repeated. Everything was fine. Sips loved him. Everything was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a window into my creative process: this whole AU came out of the image of the ballgown, the mask, the mirror. It was the first thing I wrote, and I built this entire AU around that. Once I had that image, I just had to figure out how the characters got there, and where they would go next.


	7. Chapter 7

On Monday morning, Trott let himself into his apartment. He felt strange, his head sort of aching and fuzzy like he had a hangover that just wouldn’t go away. He leaned against the back of the door, sliding the locks into place. The only noise was the muted noise of traffic in the street. The smell of dying flowers was thick in the stale air, cloyingly sweet and slightly rotten. Trott felt his stomach lurch.

Dropping his duffel bag on the floor, he he went around opening the windows and tossing the flowers into a trash bag. He poured the greenish water down the kitchen sink, filling the glass vases with hot water and dish soap. With the windows open the traffic noise was louder but the cold breeze at least made the room less stifling. The silence was too much like the quiet of Sips’ place, so high above the city streets.

His head pounded, a headache slowly getting worse as Trott forced himself to clean up. He hadn’t been home in days, and there were dirty clothes piled in his laundry basket, shoes everywhere, cups left sitting out and everywhere scattered petals. Part of him just wanted to collapse into bed and part of him felt like tossing everything right out the window. The thought of carrying out the trash or taking his clothes to the laundromat felt overwhelming. He stared at his unmade bed, the comforter half tossed on his little sofa, and wanted to cry.

Trott dragged his trash down to the alley, leaving his windows open. It would make the apartment smell better at least. Climbing the stairs left him feeling weak at the knees. He knew there was no way he was going to the laundromat today, so he stuffed the clothes into his laundry bags. The thought of anymore effort made him want to just lay down right on the floor. So he stripped off his clothes, and added them to the laundry pile.

The water pressure wasn’t great, but at least it was warm. Trott leaned his arm against the pale green tiled wall, letting the water run down his back. Once he started sobbing, he couldn’t seem to hold it back. He smushed his face into the crook of his elbow, trying to muffle the undignified noises he couldn’t stop making as the weekend caught up with him. Tears dripped into his mouth. Trott cried until he couldn’t anymore, his breath hitching. His ribs ached, and his head throbbed.

Naked, the bruises were obvious. The marks on his wrists and his hips were livid purple and blues. Trott tried not to look at them as he washed, keeping his eyes half closed as he scrubbed himself with the orange nylon pouf. Soap suds bubbled over his fingers, running down his legs to swirl around the drain.

He couldn’t help but replay the weekend over and over in his mind, images rising in his thoughts to choke him with an almost unbearable feeling of humiliation and embarrassment. He couldn’t stop remembering what it felt like to be face down on the bed, or Sips’ fury about him dancing with someone else at the Ball. He kept replaying the previous day in his mind. They often had lazy Sundays, but something about this one was stifling.

Trott had spent the entire day in a fog, feeling hungover and listless. He watched television with the sound low, sometimes watching Sips pace on his terrace. He was on the phone until the battery started to die in the cordless handset. They had dinner delivered, Chinese food that was twice as expensive as the place by Trott’s apartment but didn’t taste much better. They ended up watching a Sunday night movie about a serial killer and his teenage victims. The violence and the sex in it made Trott feel a little bit queasy.

When he woke up on Monday morning he was alone. Sips hadn’t woken him, slipping off to work early in the morning. Trott figured it was because of Marjorie Astor Cohen, and whatever millions she was dangling in his reach. Maybe he was going to see Smith.

As Trott climbed out of the shower, he wondered if Sips was with Smith right now. Maybe whatever happened between them was still going on. The thought startled him, bringing a fresh wave of misery. He clenched his jaw, trying to force his feelings back down.

His reflection in the mirror surprised him. There were dark circles under his eyes, despite a full night’s sleep. His skin was flushed from the shower, prickly as it dried. The faint shadow of stubble shadowed his jaw, and Trott slid a fresh blade onto the razor. Concentrating on a small patch of skin was slightly more bearable. Trott shaved, and began working through his usual night skincare routine. It was only afternoon, but Trott had no plans to leave the apartment again.

Shaved, moisturized and wrapped up in his bathrobe, Trott curled up on his couch. He put on the television, more for the comfort of the noise than any real interest in _The Young & the Restless_. Chewing on his lip, he held his phone in his lap. Kim would be expecting a call. He couldn’t put it off too long. But he didn’t know what he was going to say.

Trott watched the most of the show, his mind not really absorbing the drama of Victor’s relationships. The Lean Cuisine commercial reminded him that he probably needed to buy some groceries. The actress strutted onto a beach in a swimsuit, and Trott found himself wishing he could just rewind time and be back in the summer again. Before any of this had happened. The phone’s jingling ring startled him, and he almost dropped it on the floor.

“Hello?” Trott managed, hoping his voice sounded normal.

“I couldn’t stand waiting, I’m so glad you’re home! _Tell me everything!_ ” Kim spoke a mile a minute, cheerfully shouting into the phone.

“Hey Kim, what are you up to?”

“Dying to hear what it was like in the Ball, of course!”

“How have you not ever been?”

“My parents don’t like ostentatious charity giving,” Kim laughed. “They say the Ball is for gauche nouveau riche assholes, and the Richards are too _dignified_ to parade around in costumes. They write checks quietly and hand them off and pretend like they’ve never had a conversation about money ever.”

It was easy to just talk about the costumes, all the people he’d seen, the clothes, the jewels, the fantastic art in the mansion. But when he got to Marjorie Astor Cohen, Trott felt his stomach flip flop with nerves.

“You met her,” Kim sighed dreamily, like a girl with a crush on a pop star. “What a legend!”

“She doesn’t look old,” Trott said quietly.

“Of course she doesn’t. What did she say?”

“She mostly talked with Sips about buying one of Smith’s paintings.”

“I thought they were all spoken for already.”

“Somebody couldn’t pay, for some reason, and she knew all about it. Gave him a check right there.”

“Well _that’s_ something.” Kim exhaled a long breath. “I’m not surprised though. She gets what she wants, no matter what. It’s admirable, and also kinda scary.”

“She wants Smith to come for tea.”

“Tea, yeah right. She probably wants to ride him on that polar bear rug in her bedroom.”

“ _Kim!_ ” Trott half laughed, only slightly scandalized.

“We’re both thinking it. What did old man Lovasz say?”

“Said he’d talk to Smith.” Trott closed his eyes and leaned his head on the back of the couch. “I’m jealous, I’ve never even seen Smith.”

“You okay? You sound kind of rough.”

“I think I’m coming down with something actually.” Trott swallowed, and contemplated the lie. “Actually I feel like hell. I don’t think I can come in tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Stay home, put up your princess feet, it’s fine.”

Trott flinched at the princess comment, but Kim continued obliviously talking about the newest gallery hangings. He half listened, interjecting from time to time until he hung up with a promise to call if he needed anything.

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday, Trott still hadn’t been to work. He’d left his apartment to get some groceries from the corner store. He’d also gone to the drugstore a few blocks away to buy some concealer. He had to find something to cover the bruises still on his wrists. Standing in the aisle, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, with reddened eyes and messy hair. It embarrassed him to look like such a wreck. At the counter, he caught sight of his bruised wrist again when he pulled out his wallet. Trott kept his eyes down, not wanting to see the pity in the cashier’s expression.

He was sitting cross legged on the end of the bed, carefully covering the yellowing bruise with Dermablend when someone pounded on the door. Trott jumped, startled by the noise.

“Trott! Open the door!” Kim’s voice was loud.

“Jesus, what are you doing?” Trott asked, unchaining the door. Kim pushed in, looking at him. Trott felt self conscious about his hair, his old glasses, his unmade bed, everything.

“You’ve never missed two days of work in a row, I came to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Well, I’m not dead.” Trott tugged on the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pulling them down over the back of his hands.

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’ve been sick,” he snapped. “Of course I don’t look alright.”

“I brought you some groceries,” Kim said. She hefted a paper bag on the counter, pulling out a carton of orange juice.

“Thank you,” Trott said quietly. While Kim put away the food, Trott cleared the blankets off the sofa.

“I brought you the paper too.” She tossed it on the sofa between them, and handed Trott a large plastic cup of orange juice. “A reporter came around, god knows how he found out you work at the gallery, but I didn’t give him your name or say anything.”

“A reporter?”

“You’re in the paper, didn’t I tell you?” Kim flipped open the lifestyle section, to the coverage published Monday morning from the Ball. On the left side of the page, there was a photo of Trott and Sips just out of the limousine. Sips held Trott’s hand, looking away from the camera. Trott was looking down, carefully placing his feet so he didn’t trip over the curb.

“Oh my god.” Trott’s stomach flipped. Even though he wore the delicate mask, and his hair was bleached to brilliant platinum blonde, he wondered if someone would recognize him. Would someone in the library open up the paper, and say something to his mother? He wondered for a moment.

“You’re in the weeklies too.” Kim pulled out another couple papers, the weekly alternative paper and a couple tabloids that came out midweek. _OUT ON THE TOWN - WHERE’S ALEX SMITH? - ART WORLD MYSTERY DEEPENS AS MET CONSIDERS SMITH EXHIBIT - ASTOR-COHEN BALL SMASHING SUCCESS_

 _“Who is the mystery blonde in the fabulous dress?”_ screamed the caption. _“Is this why Alex Smith is nowhere to be seen? Could this be a love triangle? No one is talking but we have our eyes on this beauty!”_

Trott held his face, taking off his glasses. He couldn’t bring himself to actually read any of the articles.

“I think anyone who knows you well already knows, but no one is talking to any of these vultures.” Kim rolled her eyes. “This article is _crazy_ by the way. All this stuff about no one having seen Smith in months. Like he’s locked away in a basement somewhere, and Skyblock is making money off him. Hasn’t _anyone_ heard of a reclusive artist?!”

While Kim grumbled expressively, Trott sipped at the orange juice. It burned in his throat.

“You poor thing, getting sick after such a beautiful night.” Kim sighed. “Look, don’t worry about work this week. It’s quiet since we’re closed to hang the new show anyhow. Nina can do the filing, and there’s not really anything important until next week anyways.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry, I just-” Trott shrugged.

“It’s okay.” Kim leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “You looked beautiful. That dress was perfection. Even my mom said so.”

Trott sighed, pulled his sweatshirt sleeves over the backs of his hands.

“I felt so bad on Monday when I came home, and I slept most of yesterday…” The lie came easy. It wasn’t a complete lie. It made Trott feel worse to see Kim’s sympathetic expression.

“The come down from something that wonderful is a bitch,” Kim said. “I know. Re-entry to the regular world sucks.”

Trott nodded, closing his eyes.

“I’m gonna have someone bring you dinner, okay? You can’t lay here eating frozen food.”

“Kim, I’ll be fine-”

“Look, just let me send some food. Put it in the fridge, eat it tomorrow, whatever.”

“Fine.” Trott reached out blindly and held Kim’s hand tightly.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Trott managed. He opened his eyes. “I just feel like shit, and I can’t even enjoy being in the paper. Sips is probably pissed.”

“Has he called?”

“No. He’s probably dealing with Smith and whatever this mess is.”

“Well, at least you’re off the hook to get better.”

“I definitely won’t be charming anyone like this.” Putting his glass back on the table, Trott curled up on the couch.

“Come in Friday if you’re up to it, but don’t rush, okay?” Kim had that concerned look, a little wrinkle between her brows. Trott reached out, pressing a finger to her forehead to smooth it away.

“Okay, mom,” he chuckled. She swatted away his hand.

 

* * *

 

When the newest episode of _Dynasty_ finished, Trott was still curled up on the sofa. Takeout containers from the Chinese restaurant on the next block were still sitting on the table. He’d just eaten the hot and sour soup, leaving the fried rice and the beef with peppers for tomorrow. Packets of soy sauce and duck sauce were scattered with the napkins and a couple fortune cookies. Trott yawned, and turned the sound off on the television. He dragged the phone onto the couch and tucked himself back under a blanket.

Summoning up his nerves, Trott picked up the phone and held the receiver against his shoulder as he dialed Sips’ home number. It wasn’t so late. Sips would still be awake. It rang just enough to make Trott nervous all over again before Sips picked up, sounding out of breath.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, I-”

“Trott.” There was a rustling, scraping sound as Sips put the phone to his chest. Trott could dimly hear him saying something to someone. Trott chewed on his lip, waiting.

“What do you need, Trott?” Sips sounded distant.

“Are you busy, I can let you go-”

“No, it’s fine.” Trott heard a door close. “Just had a buddy round to talk about some business.”

“I saw the papers today.”

“That.” Sips sighed into the phone. “Newspapers. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

“My boss said a reporter called the gallery, wanting to talk to me.”

“A _reporter_?” Sips’ voice sharpened. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, I wasn’t there.” Trott watched the commercials on the muted television.

“Look, don’t talk to _any_ of them, you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it, Trott.” Sips’ voice was unusually serious. “Say you understand.”

“I understand,” Trott said, trying not to sound petulant. “What’s going on Sips?”

Sips sighed heavily, his breath crackling in the phone.

“Smith has some family who are trying to cash in on his success, and they’re spreading rumors to try to cause trouble. It’s all bullshit. They’re just making noise, and they’ve got reporters foaming at the mouth at the idea of something scandalous.”

“But if they’re lying, won’t the reporters find that out?” Trott wondered if Smith had family in some small town just like he did. It made him curious.

“Lies sell,” Sips chuckled. “Believe me, the idea that any of those reporters care about truth is a joke.”

“Okay.” Trott watched the late night news anchors, silently cutting to footage of something involving lots of police cars. He wanted to say something, like that he’d never had his picture in the paper much less in every paper. That maybe his family might come calling too. But that would probably just upset Sips even more, he thought.

“If anyone bothers you, tell me about it and I’ll make some calls,” Sips said.

“I’ll just tell them that Smith and I are having an affair,” Trott joked.

“That’s not funny,” Sips snapped, and there was an iciness to his voice that caught Trott off guard. He sounded genuinely upset.

“It was a bad joke, I’m sorry,” Trott whispered. His throat was scratchy, like he was actually getting sick.

“I mean it Trott. Stay out of this, don’t talk to anyone about it.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Trott swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat.

“Look, I’ve had a long day-” Sips sounded more stressed than Trott had ever heard him sound. In the background, Trott heard him open and close a door.

“I’m sorry I called so late.” Trott curled the phone cord around his fingers.

“I’ll call you later this week.” Sips hung up before Trott could say anything else. The abruptness stung, and Trott’s eyes watered. He sucked in a breath, surprised at himself and at Sips. It was a long moment of pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes before he conquered the impulse to cry.

On the table, the stack of papers sat beneath the takeout bag. Trott cleared his food away, putting all the leftovers in the fridge. He poured himself another glass of orange juice.

He laid the newspapers out, opening each one to find the pictures of himself and Sips. Most of them were from when they got out of the limousine. Sips holding his hand as Trott looked down, climbing out of the seat. The two of them walking towards the steps. But there was one taken when they were halfway up the stairs. Only a quarter of Sips’ face was visible, turned away. But Trott remembered looking back at the photographers, hearing someone shouting Smith’s name. The look on his face was curious, surprised.

Trott found a pair of scissors and cut the pictures out of the paper. He put them between the pages of an oversized book of fashion photographs on the shelf below the television, and dumped the rest of the papers in the trash.

Even if the library back in that small Indiana town still got the Times, even if one of the women in the beauty shop got a tabloid delivered, Trott didn’t look anything like he did when he was a teenager. No one could see the skinny, brown haired boy with plastic framed glasses and hand me down clothes with the blonde in that bejeweled gown. No one would connect that quiet, shy boy with a big city event for rich people. It comforted Trott, to think he was unrecognizable to his former life.

In the bathroom mirror, Trott studied himself. The bruises on his hips were yellowing. He didn’t need to cover them up, no one would see them. He paused, fingers tracing the shapes, and wondered if Sips would say something. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if the lights were low, or off. Trott didn’t know why he feel so ashamed, so reluctant to let Sips see what he’d done. It didn’t make any sense.

He turned out the light.


	8. Chapter 8

Sips didn’t call, and Trott pretended like it didn’t hurt. He went back to work on Friday, catching the tail end of the changes to their main exhibition space. The opening show was scheduled for  Saturday night, and Kim was hoping this one might be a real hit. The windows were papered over, and the gallery was appointments only during the week, for people who wanted to pick up their pieces from the last show personally. The artist had already come to collect the handful that hadn’t sold, and to pick up her check. Trott would miss the weird paintings of flowers in the desert in their washed out colors. 

The new artist Mary Ocin was on the edges of the art scene, someone who went to parties at the Factory before it closed and spent time roaming the clubs. Nina met her dancing one night, and convinced her to bring in some things to show Kim. Often that was all it took to get a show at the Nano. Kim’s fondness for new artists, especially unknown women, meant she hung quite an eclectic range of pieces. Nina sometimes suggested artists from the student shows she visited, and Kim would often approach others she liked to suggest shows. They didn’t make a ton of money off the sales when Trott was done balancing the books and cutting checks to the artists. But Kim liked the variety, and the Nano was slowly building a reputation as a place with fresh work and bargains for people with specific tastes. It wasn’t a million dollar success like Skyblock or some of the established galleries, but the Nano made more money than Trott had ever earned. 

Nina sang along to the radio, pushing a broom around the space. She wore a bright orange sweater with a jackolantern face. There was a stack of pumpkins by the front door that Nina intended to carve that afternoon to line the sidewalk out front. A trio of workmen with soft Australian accents were busy painting and prepping the walls for all the extra electrical outlets they needed. Trott grabbed the RSVP folder off the front desk as he walked back to the office, wondering if he should call their catering company to ask for extra wine. 

“So is your boyfriend coming to the opening?” Kim asked. She sat down across from Trott, sliding the signed contracts into a folder. Since no one was coming in today, she wore a casual pair of acid washed jeans with her red silk blouse. 

For a moment Trott held his breath. He knew perfectly well there was no RSVP card from Sips in the stack. He’d invited Sips, of course. At the time, Sips had merely smiled, tucked the invitation card in a pocket. Before he could say anything, a black clad waiter appeared to take them to their table, and Sips had to stop to greet someone along the way. Trott had assumed Sips would say something this week, but they’d not spoken since that awkward phone call Wednesday night.

There were flowers on the end of the desk though. The regular delivery had arrived on Thursday like normal. Trott opened the card in the bathroom, worried that it might be a break up or some version of “let’s take a break” that he was not prepared to face. It was in Sips’ handwriting, a detail that always charmed Trott. If he’d ordered them over the phone or in advance, someone else would have written the card.

“To my beautiful princess” the card simply said. Trott’s stomach flipped, a mix of longing and the memory of the night after the Ball. He tucked the card in his bag. Staring in the mirror, Trott willed himself to be calm. He took deep breaths, and tried to slow the pounding of his heart. He just wanted to seem normal for at least the rest of the work day. He didn’t look at Kim, unsure what his eyes might betray.

“What? Oh. Um, I don’t think so.” Trott looked down at his hands. He had on so many bracelets that he doubted anyone would have seen the old bruise even if he hadn’t covered it carefully that morning. 

“Shame,” Kim sighed. Trott could feel her watching him. “Is everything okay there?”

“He’s still upset about the papers,” Trott said carefully. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t rub his face, or he’d smear his carefully applied concealer and eye makeup. The dark circles under his eyes required some of the concealer, and Trott painted his lids with teal shadows to match the bright blue printed dress he wore.

“I always thought he was one of those ‘any publicity is good publicity’ types.”

“Whatever is going on with Smith is just weird.”

“He’s hardly the first artist to be a diva.” Kim shrugged. “But if he really wants to play his mysterious recluse card, he should at least show up once or twice a year.”

“I wonder if Sips talked into visiting Marjorie Astor Cohen.”

“That I would kill to see,” Kim chuckled. “Can you imagine?”

“Yeah.” Trott tapped his nails on the desk. He should go get a manicure, probably. Out in the gallery, Nina’s voice lifted along with the song. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Always.”

“Something really private, that stays between us.”

“Scout’s honor.” Kim crossed herself. Trott made a face.

“Scouts don’t cross themselves.”

“Whatever!” Kim got up, and shut the office door. She sat back down with a serious expression. “What’s going on, Trott?”

“It’s about Sips, and Smith…” He sighed, trying to order his words. “I think. I don’t know what I think. But, Sips is worked up about it more than a person would be if it was just business or whatever.”

“You think there’s something more personal going on,” Kim said shrewdly.

“I don’t know. But all those interviews, right, he makes it sound like he and Smith are drinking buddies and hang out - I’ve never seen Smith. I’ve never even heard him on the phone with him. He told Marjorie about some new studio, and he’s never ever mentioned-”

“Well, you are only there on weekends…”

“I think maybe it is more than friends.”

“You think he’s sleeping with Smith?”

“Maybe?” Trott couldn’t help making it into a question.

“Huh.” Kim sat back in her chair. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Maybe he’s just seeing me in public to keep people from finding out.”

“I don’t think that’s it. Him and Smith… it’s not exactly unusual. People sleep with people they do business with all the time. I don’t think he’d try to hide that by dating someone who works at another gallery.”

“Yeah... It’s just. He said there was trouble with Smith’s family, and maybe that’s it.” Trott shook his head miserably. “Maybe I’m just a convenient excuse, I don’t know.”

“Honey.” Kim reached across the table to take his hand. “Did you two have a fight? You’ve been upset all week.”

“Not exactly,” Trott said, trying to keep from welling up with embarrassing tears. “He just hasn’t been around, and he says he’s dealing with this Smith thing, and I just-”

“Oh Trott.” Kim came around the desk to hug him.  

“It is all-” Trott waved a hand. “This is dumb, I don’t know why I’m so upset.” It wasn’t just the business with Smith, but that was certainly part of it. 

Kim rubbed a hand on his back. “It will be alright. He’ll get whatever business he’s got sorted out with Smith.”

“What if they are sleeping together?”

“Well. I’d be surprised. If he was involved with Smith, he would have taken him to the Ball, right? Not that you aren’t beautiful and gorgeous but Smith is famous. He’s the most sought after party guest in the city, and he doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Right.”

“It’s more likely that Smith probably slept with him to get the gallery show in the first place, and now he won’t blow him anymore because he doesn’t have to, so Lovasz is probably mad and jealous.”

Trott made a weak noise, but didn’t know if he meant to agree or dispute Kim’s statement. He leaned his head against Kim’s hip, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Are you seeing him tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“No Halloween plans?” she asked. Trott shook his head. Sips had mentioned some parties, but Trott had no idea where they were or who was having them. He’d just assumed they’d be together. Trott wasn’t just going to show up in hopes of finding Sips. 

“Do you want to go to a party? I know a couple-”

“No, nothing I have to get dressed up for.” Trott couldn’t stomach the thought of another costume party, not so soon. He didn’t want to talk with strangers, or flirt, or keep up the facade. It was hard enough to just keep himself moving.

“Let’s go to the movies. We could go see The Color of Money, that one with Paul Newman. It’s playing at the Odeon, so we could go get dinner at the diner afterwards.”

Trott thought about it. It had been weeks since he went out on a Friday with Kim. Weeks since he woke up in his own bed on the weekend. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

“Sure.” There was no point in moping at home waiting for the phone to ring. It sounded better than a party, at least. 

“Let him go be weird dealing with his artist,” Kim said. “He’ll realize how much he misses you when he stops to think.”

Trott sighed. 

“Oh,” Kim said. “I have a couple rsvps to add to your stack. VIP list.” 

“Who else?” Trott grumbled in mock irritation.

“My parents.”

“Your parents?” Trott looked up, shock creasing the space between his brows. “Your parents. Are coming here. Really?”

“I know, right?” Kim laughed flippantly. But Trott could see the nerves in the way she brushed her hair back with one hand, the fresh from the salon new bounce to her fashionable cut. 

“What?”

“I think they’ve finally just gotten curious.” Shrugging, Kim picked up the guest lists and studied them. “Maybe they’ve finally decided to get some new art. Who knows.”

“Well I definitely have to call the catering people about more wine now.” Trott reached for the phone. 

“See if you can get them to send some extra bottles of chardonnay,” Kim sighed. 

 

* * *

 

Between the movie and Saturday’s gallery party, Trott kept busy enough to avoid thinking about Sips through most of his weekend. Sitting in the theater was a pleasant enough distraction. Then he stayed up too late with Kim, eating french fries at the their favorite all night diner and talking about the merits of various movie stars. It felt easy. They didn’t talk about Sips, or dating. Trott could almost pretend none of the past six weeks had happened. 

There were plenty of people stumbling in and out of the diner, many of them wearing Halloween costumes. Kim tried to guess what kind of people they were on regular days, making ridiculous pronouncements. Trott laughed until his eyes watered and smeared his mascara. It felt good to laugh so easily. It felt good to just be silly, instead of deathly serious. 

There were no messages waiting on his answering machine when he climbed the stairs. His apartment was dim, the only sound the distant wail of sirens. Trott washed his face, and collapsed into bed. He slept late, and didn’t dream. 

Saturday was chilly. Candy wrappers blew in the breeze, and forgotten black bunting was snarled around a trash can at the corner. In the cafe, Trott waited for his coffee and hummed along to the Cyndi Lauper song playing on the speakers. It felt bittersweet and suited his mood. He hoped enough caffeine and sugar would perk him up to do all the last minute work for the show. Trott let himself stare at the new art hanging up on the brick wall. This time it was exquisitely elaborate black and white ink portraits, with fanciful borders drawn to resemble old fashioned picture frames. Stepping around an empty table, Trott leaned in to take a closer look. The borders were full of hidden objects, cups and animals, knives, crowns, coils of rope, books. He frowned, trying to parse the connections between the three quarter profiles and the frames. Whatever the iconography was, it eluded him. They were weird, but interesting. He’d have to mention them to Kim.

The barista called out his name, and Trott stepped around a man waiting by the counter. He could feel the appraising glance on his back. Trott turned, raised an eyebrow over his cats eye glasses. The man, dressed simply in jeans and a leather jacket, smiled back. He had nice eyes, Trott thought. Blue as the sky. Trott walked out, humming the chorus of the song. It felt nice to be admired, even if it just was a stranger. 

The afternoon passed in a blur. The fans overnight had taken away the smell of fresh paint. Trott followed Mary Ocin around as she fretted over the placement of the pieces. Fortunately her complaints about how they’d hung the show were minor ones and easily smoothed over. Then he was busy letting the caterers in the back, and the crew of black clad people setting up small tables for the wine and canapes reminded Trott that he ought to order something in so they could have a late lunch. He also ran out to the dry cleaner to pick up Kim’s jacket, forgotten yesterday. His own outfit hung on the back of the office door, ready for a quick change around six when they had a pre-party appointment with a reporter from the Times. Trott had his fingers crossed for a quick turn article for the Sunday section but he would be happy with a feature in the arts section sometime that week. He smoothed a hand down the stretchy purple dress, watching the iridescent sheen of the silvery belt catch the light. His party heels were in his bag, along with a tube of black raspberry lipstick and a compact of eyeshadow. 

Nina stuck her head in the office. She wore a blouse with a garish pop art print pattern in yellow and black, and a black pencil skirt, her hair hanging in a loose braid.

“What is it?”

"It's for you," Nina said, drawing out the vowels. "The delivery guy scared the crap out of me, banging on the glass.”  


“What delivery guy?” Trott raised his eyebrows. 

“The one with the flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Yeah, you got more flowers.”

Trott followed Nina to the front, where a brilliant bouquet of flowers in almost every color spilled across the desk.

“Are they for the show? It wasn’t the usual guy who brings them for you.”

Trott half listened to Nina chatter about the cute delivery guy as he picked up the flowers. There was no card, just a gold ribbon tied around the white paper. It didn’t look like anything Sips had sent before.

“Are you sure these are for me?” Trott finally asked. He touched the petals of a carnation. 

“The delivery guy said your name.” Nina shrugged. She flipped her braid over her shoulder.

“Can you find me a vase for them?” Trott didn’t have time to think about this, or whatever it might mean. Nina nodded, and skipped off with the flowers. Trott stood by the door, looking out through the narrow gap between the paper sheets. No sign of a delivery guy. Of course he’d be gone by now. Trott shivered as the cold wind rattled the door slightly. He checked his watch, and sighed. Catering would be here any minute to set up, and there were still a dozen things to check off his list. 

 

* * *

 

Freshly painted, the gallery walls were a soft matte grey over the black stained wood floors. The overhead lights were slightly dimmed, to enhance the neon glow in the room. Each of the paintings was a skyline, a night time city rendered in bright pops of color. There were recognizable cities, big places, and smaller ones perhaps unknown to many of the guests. Each one was enhanced with neon around the edge of the canvas, the colors mimicking the ones used in the paintings. Some had the city names spelled out, and some were just simple outlines of iconic buildings. They glowed beautifully over the purplish black canvases with all their dots of light. 

The opening party was in swing, even though it was early. Trott suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. He half listened as Kim answered questions from the Times reporter, a slender person with slicked back red hair and a voluminous black suit. He admired the androgyny of the look, something like Bowie from The Hunger. They had thick, heavy eyeliner and a pale face. Trott hadn’t quite caught their name, Jean or Gene or something like that.

Around the gallery, the caterers were circling with trays full of tiny toasts spread with pate or goat cheese, bacon wrapped dates, and tiny meringues. Against the wall by the door to the office they’d set up a bar to pour the California chardonnay and merlot. It was a big step up from plastic cups of cheap red and cheese cubes, Trott thought. Champagne would have been too much. But this was nice, elegant, very in the moment.

Three of the pieces sold in the first hour. The neon cityscapes were beautiful, Trott thought, and very, very commercial. 

“I think Mary Ocin is exactly perfect for this moment in time,” Kim said to the reporter. “People enjoy all the color, but they also want something recognizable, too. Not everyone wants to look at a Rorschach blot on the wall.”

“Like Smith’s current work,” the reporter said, looking up from their notepad. Kim laughed.

“I wasn’t thinking of him. Smith’s in his own field. You can’t compare him to anyone or anything.”

“What do you think about his absence from public view?” The reporter flipped a page, scribbling away in a messy shorthand.

“It works for him, doesn’t it? People want what they can’t have.” Kim shook her head. “Not everyone wants to be in the public eye though.”

“What about you?”

“Please!” Kim laughed again, tipping her head. Her earrings flashed, enormous angular hoops of metallic blue. “If I had an artistic bone in my body, I’d be camped out on your doorstep begging to be interviewed. I’m pretty sure Mary would love to talk to you. Let me introduce you. This show is going to be big, and you’ll have the first interview with a new star.”

The reporter nodded, looking interested. Trott caught Kim’s eye, tipping his head to the side. She smiled and waved, letting him know she was good. He was free to roam the party, and take checks from anyone who wanted to hand them over tonight.

Kim’s parents stood in front of a painting of the Hong Kong skyline, talking quietly to each other. As Trott approached, they fell silent.

“So nice to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Richards.” Trott always felt like he should curtsy or bow when he met them. The Richards had such formal poise. It always made Trott think of royalty.

“Mr. Trott.” Alden Richards shook his hand. He wore his usual suit, a dark blue three piece that was not in fashion. But it was tailored precisely to fit, and he looked like a time traveler who had stepped right out of the 1960’s. Tall and almost painfully slender, he never seemed to slouch.  


“For once, this is a nice party,” Diana Richards said. She lifted her glass, inspecting it. “Real glasses. Decent wine.” She wore a black and white dress covered in beading, bits of jet and crystal that glittered even in the subdued light. Her hair was styled like Alexis Carrington’s from Dynasty, and it suited her narrow face. The only color came from her crimson lipstick, and a ruby and diamond necklace at her throat. She was shorter than Trott, but her presence felt so much larger. 

“No plastic cups here,” Trott agreed with a smile. He’d found Kim’s parents terrifyingly intimidating when he first met them. He was sure they could see right through him to his working class heart.

Diana Li Wei-luan Richards had grown up in Kuala Lampur as the young child of a wealthy family. Alden Richards was the son of a British diplomat and an American mother, spending his childhood traveling the world. Neither of them had ever needed to wash dishes, hang up their laundry in the back yard, or collect eggs from a chicken coop. The diamond earrings Diana wore tonight probably would have paid off the mortgage on the house back in Indiana.

“The art, too, is a pleasant surprise.” Alden gestured at the painting. The large canvas was of Hong Kong. The towers were highlighted in streaks of green and gold. In the lower left corner, neon Chinese characters glowed. Trott thought they were the name of the city, but he wasn’t completely sure.

“We spent our honeymoon in Hong Kong,” Diana commented. For a moment she glanced fondly at Alden, and Trott almost had to look away. The warmth and intimacy of their connection was another one of the things that startled him when they first met. It wasn’t just their wealth, their educations or their accents that set them apart from his own parents. It was that they seemed so genuinely in love. 

“Two glorious weeks,” Alden nodded. “I think I gained ten pounds just eating dumplings. The food. Exquisite.”

“You worked it off though,” Diana said. She sipped at her wine. Trott noticed the tips of Alden’s ears were pink, though the color of his cheeks didn’t change. 

“How is the business?” Alden asked, clearing his throat. Diana raised her eyebrows, and turned to walk down the wall admiring the other city skylines. Her steps were slow, careful. The long dress clung tightly to her legs.  


“Pretty good. I think we’ll sell quite a few of these tonight.” Trott couldn’t help but smile. “I think this one could be a big one for the Nano, and the artist.”

“Really.” Alden tilted his head slightly. “How much are they?”

“Most of them are five thousand, though we’ve priced the two panoramas of the City a bit higher.” Trott found talking about money with rich people a surreal experience. 

“ _Only_ five?” Alden raised one perfect eyebrow, surprise wrinkling his forehead.

“It’s the artist’s first big show on their own,” Trott said. “Usually that means lower prices, which encourages buying. Good for the artist, to sell out a show. They can raise the prices on the next one.”

Alden nodded. Trott wondered if he should have said anything. Kim often said her parents were reluctant to talk about the gritty details of money when it came to her business.

“My wife and I haven’t been back to Hong Kong in many years,” Alden said. “I suppose if I buy this, you will deliver it.”

“Y-yes, once the show closes in a few weeks,” Trott stammered, surprised. “Though I’m sure if you wanted we could-”

“No, no, a few weeks makes it better. Diana will be surprised.” Alden pulled a checkbook out of the pocket of his jacket, and Trott watched with some bemusement as he wrote a check on the spot. His penmanship was as neat and crisp as his voice.

“I’ll just have to go get a tag, so it can be marked as sold, and I can get your receipt.” Trott held the check, glancing around. He didn’t think of Kim’s parents as art collectors. They were bemused by her interest in art, and the pictures in their home were the sort of classic, tasteful things purchased because they complimented the decor. 

Alden waved a hand, smiling to himself. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the painting.  Trott left him to his private reverie.

 

* * *

 

Sunday arrived with a quiet emptiness. Trott woke up too early, and watched the light shift across the room. He laid there entirely too long, not sure he was ready to get up for anything. Or that there was really any reason to get up.

Yesterday’s flowers sat on his nightstand. Trott vaguely remembered carrying them home in the cab, and setting them in an empty vase. Tiny purple blossoms poked up between the dahlias and the multitude of colorful crocuses. A pair of rusty orange roses nestled in the mix. He rolled on his side, looking at the bouquet. There was something different about this one. He didn’t think they were from Sips. Maybe it was from the painter with all the flowers? He didn’t know. 

His fridge was still depressingly empty, but he had some orange juice and half a bottle of wine one of the caterers let him take home. Trott poured some chardonnay into a juice glass. He leaned against his counter, staring at nothing in particular. It felt a bit sordid to be drinking wine at 7am like this, wearing only a robe. The floor felt dirty underfoot, and Trott sighed. He should clean. He should do a lot of things. But first, he should probably clean up his apartment before it descended into a level of filth that would require outside intervention.

Two hours later, the apartment was less of a mess than before. He’d swept, and scrubbed at the places along the kitchen floor where he’d dripped coffee. He’d washed the dirty glasses piled up on the counter, and rinsed out the coffee maker. There was a new bag of trash to take out. There was a pile of laundry to be done, and things that needed to go to the dry cleaner. He’d even stripped the bed and put on clean sheets, something he did not do nearly enough. Trott hated carrying piles of bedding down to the basement laundry room, even if it was a perk of the building. At least there were dryers.

After a hot shower, Trott dressed in the most casual clothes he owned. Sweatpants, black with electric lime stripes up the legs. A plain grey shirt. The black and white windbreaker he’d bought at the beach years ago. It was sunny outside, but it would be cold. The weather was shifting rapidly towards winter. Trott rummaged through his lipsticks, finally choosing a soft pink with just a bit of pearly shimmer. It reminded him of the inside of oyster shells. He didn’t want to do a lot, but he rarely left the house without at least lipstick. He combed his hair back with a headband, and put on his old glasses.

Laundry started, Trott went to the corner to buy a copy of the paper. A few blocks away, he slipped into a diner sandwiched between an empty store front and a dry cleaner. It was busy for a Sunday morning, mostly people clearing their hangovers. It was not a place for the church crowd, unless that church crowd was counting their sobriety chips or just waiting for someone else to finish their worship. But there was a place at the counter, and Trott settled on the vinyl stool between two silent diners bent over their plates. The sound of conversation from the booths, and the clatter of the kitchen working full speed on breakfasts, washed over him in a comforting wave. 

The only talking he had to do was ordering from the tall waitress behind the counter in an orange apron, her brown hair pulled back in a bun. The coffee was scalding hot, and tasted burnt. But she gave him real creamer instead of powdered packets, and the mug was pleasantly heavy. There was something familiar in the smell and taste of too strong diner coffee, reminding Trott of his first job. He turned his thoughts away from the memory, listening to the sizzle of the flat top grill and the sound of dishes.

He pulled out the arts section, looking for the piece on the Nano’s show. To his immense surprise, there was a photo attached. Kim and the artist stood talking, holding glasses of wine. In the background were the pictures. Also in the background, Trott could see himself. He was facing away from the camera, toward the wall where one of the skyline paintings hung. He marveled at the thought that twice in a few weeks he’d been in the papers. 

His breakfast arrived, an enormous plate with crispy hash browns, bright yellow scrambled eggs, buttery golden toast, and slices of bacon crisped until it was almost black. Trott ate slowly, holding his folded up paper with one hand as he read the article. It was a favorable look at the artist, and there were some good lines about the Nano. He knew there would be so many messages on the answering machine when he went back to work. Quite a few paintings had sold the first night, and Trott felt confident the rest would sell. Mary Ocin would be a hit. Trott tucked the paper under the edge of his plate, and drank some more coffee. As much as solo diner breakfasts on Sundays were not in his usual routine, it wasn’t bad. He didn’t feel terrible. He did wonder what Sips was doing.

Chewing on a piece of bacon, Trott picked up his paper to move it out of the way so he didn’t accidentally spill coffee on the article. His eyes caught a headline in the city section and he folded the pages carefully, trying not to get greasy fingerprints on them all. The salty, crispy bits of pork dissolved in his mouth as he read. In the kitchen, someone swore eloquently in Spanish as plates clattered onto the pass through window. The man beside him got up, leaving his napkin crumpled in the pool of grease from his steak and eggs.

_FIRE RAVAGES WAREHOUSE LOFTS, TWO DEAD - Friday night’s fire in the warehouse district claimed two lives, and authorities are investigating it as a possible arson. Two victims were pulling from the burning warehouse, and died of smoke inhalation at Greenwood Hospital late Saturday night. The warehouses were converted into residences though authorities indicate most were not up to the city building code. Authorities have not yet released the names of the deceased. _

Trott stared into his coffee cup for so long the waitress asked if something was wrong. He shook his head, and asked for a refill. Then he dumped too much creamer in, but at least he wouldn’t burn his tongue. Trott scooped up hashbrowns and eggs with a piece of toast, and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. It was hot and salty, crunchy and soft, with the sweet richness of melted butter soaking through. It was better than he’d expected. He didn't eat like this often, too worried about gaining weight. But it was good. Something about it soothed him.  


Trott didn’t know exactly where Smith’s warehouse loft was, only that it was vaguely in that neighborhood. He read the article again, only a few short sentences in the page. But there was not much to go on, not even a picture. No mention of artists. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this fire had something to do with Smith. He chewed on a crust of toast, and scanned the other articles. Nothing registered, the words disappearing the moment he finished reading them. The waitress tucked his bill beside his plate, and refilled his coffee one more time. Slowly, Trott finished his breakfast and wondered what was going on with Sips and Smith.


	9. Chapter 9

Tuesday was one of those beautiful late autumn days on the cusp of winter. Bare branches and buildings stood against the cobalt blue sky, fat white clouds sliding overhead with soft grey shadows underneath. All the stink and grit of the city washed away in last night’s brief rain, leaving a bright day that smelled of leaves and cold air, bits of ozone and ice.

It was chilly outside, but in the sun it didn’t seem so bad. Midday light filled the spaces between buildings. The wind whipped pieces of newspaper, an empty styrofoam cup and a tattered green napkin past the legs of the bench before it subsided. Trott watched a handful of dead leaves, faded orange and brown, spin in a brief cyclone before they fell back to the sidewalk. He was glad he picked the pants suit today, the dark purple wool tailored to fit with his lower daytime heels. Under his blazer he wore a bright red blouse, elaborately styled with a puff of red lace at his throat in a faux cravat. He’d finished his lunch from the falafel cart and was casually finishing a diet Coke before he went back to the Nano. Reflexively Trott checked his watch. Still fifteen minutes before he had to get back to the gallery. 

Car horns blared as a taxi ran the light at the end of the block. Trott pushed his glasses back up his nose. He wondered, as he did entirely too often, what Sips was doing. He still hadn’t called. Sometimes Trott wondered if he should call Skyblock and ask for him. But maybe Sips wasn’t even at work.

“Do you mind if I sit?” someone asked from his left, stirring Trott from his thoughts.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” the man continued. “I like getting to have lunch outside every now and then.” Out of the corner of his eye, Trott registered the man’s navy blue suit, a brown leather briefcase, a flash of pale skin and dark hair. Instead of answering, Trott made a noncommittal noise. He didn’t especially want to talk to a stranger on his lunch break. It was sometimes more trouble than it was worth, especially when it was a man. 

Instead of answering, Trott shifted over closer to the end of the bench, staring straight ahead. He held his purse in his lap. It was the same gold leather as his shoes. Kim convinced him to buy them, convinced this trend would be the next big thing and they’d be ahead of the curve. Kim’s fashion advice was only so-so, but Trott humored her on this one. He liked the metallic sheen on the leather.

The man set his briefcase on his lap, and started unwrapping a chocolate bar. The foil crinkled in his hands. Trott wondered if he should just get up, maybe take a slow walk back to the Nano. He resented having to abandon his place in the tiny park just because some stranger couldn’t find another bench to sit at though.

“Not one for talking, I guess.” The man sounded disappointed.

“I don’t know you,” Trott said in a crisp voice, taking a drink of his soda. Hopefully that would shut this conversation down. He could just wander, window shop instead. Better than talking to this stranger.

“But I know you.” 

The words were so unexpected that Trott glanced over. The man was smiling slightly, lips closed. His dark hair was combed back from his forehead in the current style, making him look like one of the slick financial guys from downtown, or maybe a lawyer. Trott studied him, wondering why he seemed familiar. At first glance he’d pass as a Wall Street type. But the suit was not a real designer suit, it was a knock off and even sitting down Trott could tell it wasn’t tailored to fit. His tie was wrong, too wide and with a hideous pattern of green, blue and orange stripes. The leather loafers were clean, but scuffed and worn. They were definitely not designer shoes. 

“Usually I try to just make friends, strike up a conversation, make it casual. But I don’t think that will work with you.” The man looked mournfully at the chocolate bar in his hand, and folded the wrapper closed. He stuffed it back in his briefcase.

“Excuse me?” Trott asked, his voice sharpening. He was baffled and slightly unsettled by this conversation. It was getting stranger by the second. 

“You were hard to find, Chris. But I’d recognize you anywhere now.”

“That’s not my name,” Trott said. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He felt dizzy, like the ground had wobbled underfoot.

“It still is on your old Indiana driver’s license, though you don’t have a license here in the City. Less reason to drive here. You got your license when you were fourteen, right? To help out your parents? You look different from that picture, that’s for sure.” The man looked him up and down. It wasn’t sexual, but there was something assessing in his gaze.

“Look, I have nothing to say to my parents or anyone-” Panic welled up in his voice. He started to stand, but his knees wobbled and he nearly turned his ankle sideways. He sat down heavily with a gasp. 

“Whoa, careful.” The man held up a hand, his brow furrowed. He leaned in closer. Trott noticed his fair complexion, the pink of his lips, the bit of razor burn under his chin. “I don’t have anything to do with your parents. That’s not why I’m here.”

“What do you want from me?” Trott gripped his cup of ice cubes and soda, hard enough to feel it start to crack. He wondered if he should throw it in the man’s face and make a run for it. He could run in these heels if he had to. Trott tensed, getting ready to move.

“I wanted to ask you a few question about Alex Smith.”

Trott heaved himself to his feet, wobbling a little. The man rose, reaching out as if to take Trott’s elbow.

“Wait, please!”

“ _ Don’t touch me! _ ” Trott half shouted, his voice rising. He hadn’t meant to say it so loud. A few people turned their heads, curious about the shout. Before he could stop himself, Trott flung the cup. It hit the man’s briefcase, ice and soda spattering the bench. The man took a step back, raising his hands with an apologetic look. One of the men sitting on a bench across the plaza laughed, watching them. Before he could say anything else, Trott walked away as quickly as he could manage. Back stiff and straight, he didn’t look behind him to see if he was being followed. 

_ Chris... your old Indiana drivers license... look different now…  _ The words tumbled through his brain blurring into a sound like static and white noise. He could barely hear anything else. The ambient noise of the city could hardly match the roaring in his ears, the pounding of his heart. 

The corner light was about to turn red, and Trott slipped into a group of people in suits coming out of the bank tower. Some of them headed towards the taxis idling at the curb, but most of them crowded the sidewalk waiting to cross. Trott risked a glance over his shoulder but he didn’t see the man in his cheap suit.  His temples throbbed, and he felt flushed. He shifted from foot to foot nervously. When the light changed, Trott exhaled and strode back towards the Nano as fast as he could.

 

* * *

 

Trott didn’t say anything to Nina and Kim about the stranger in the park. On his way home from work, he kept glancing over his shoulder. Once he even ran into another pedestrian, something he hadn’t done since his first year in the City. Trott mumbled an apology as the guy grumbled and shoved past him.  

If the stranger was following him, Trott did not see him. It occurred to him that if the man knew his name, he probably already knew where Trott’s apartment was. He stopped in a corner store, staring blankly at the cooler full of sodas and bottled water and beer. Perhaps he should call Kim from the payphone, ask to meet her. But it would sound extra crazy and weird. Especially if the guy really was looking for Smith. It meant involving Sips. Maybe he should call Sips. But he would probably brush it off and tell Trott to just not talk to anyone. If he even answered the phone this time. There were a couple emergency quarters in his bag. He could try calling. But he wasn’t sure what he could say if anyone answered. That he was frightened of a stranger in the park, the mention of his past? There were too many things he didn’t want to talk about. 

Instead of walking to the payphone Trott bought a bag of potato chips, a tub of sour cream, a packet of onion soup mix, and a six pack of cherry Coke. He lingered over the chip aisle, glancing out the window at the street. His nerves were still tense after the confrontation. 

All the way back to his apartment, Trott kept his back straight and refused to look back. He balanced his bag on his hip while he swiftly unlocked the lobby door. The stairs were empty, only the faint sound of television on the third floor. Without realizing, he held his breath as he rounded the last section up to his floor. No one waited there. Trott slipped inside, and sagged against his door in relief. He kicked off his shoes, letting them fall underneath the coats hanging by the door, and set the groceries on the kitchen counter. A pile of Lean Cuisine boxes filled his trash can, and the only things in the dish rack were forks and a coffee cup. It was still mostly clean at least.

After a shower, Trott put on his sweatpants and a soft, long sleeved shirt from last year’s sales. It was covered in enormous roses, a soft floral pattern that made Trott think of wallpaper. He mixed up the sour cream and the soup mix, and ate it with chips standing at the kitchen counter. From time to time, he glanced at the phone. He wondered if he should call Sips, and tell him about the weird scene with the stranger in the park. It worried him to think that there was someone snooping around.

The phone rang, long past the point an answering machine should have picked up. Trott counted ten rings before he put the receiver down. He wondered if Sips was out, where he was. He hadn’t heard anything from him since that awkward call last week. Part of him wondered if this was it, if things were over.

Feeling unhappy and unsettled, Trott grabbed another soda from his fridge and settled down on the sofa. He took off his glasses. The television was mostly coverage of the election he’d forgotten to vote in today. He flipped the channel, watching one of the many crime dramas he didn’t actually care about while he ate potato chips. 

The Sunday newspaper was still on his coffee table. Trott pulled out the city section again, and glanced at the tiny article about the warehouse fire. He wondered if he should ask Kim. They’d been busy fielding calls, dealing with curious customers who wanted to snap up the last of the Ocin paintings. Kim was bemused by her father’s purchase of the Hong Kong painting, but Trott suspected she was secretly happy about it. Two years at running the gallery, and perhaps this was finally the approval she wanted. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Trott muted the television. He picked up the phone, tucking the receiver against his shoulder as he dialed Sips’ home number again. It rang, and rang. This time he let it ring twenty times, enough that he couldn’t imagine Sips enduring the sound. He imagined it echoing through the rooms.

Annoyed and miserable, Trott put the phone down on the floor. All the channels were running the late news now. He sighed, and wished he had cable like Kim. Then he could at least be watching a movie or anything but the news. He was about to flip it off when it switched back to local coverage. The ABC anchor had enormous permed hair, like a golden cloud of curls. She looked dolefully into the camera.

_ “We now know the identity of one of the victims of the four alarm fire last Friday. Simon Howell, 54, was a resident of the building. A long time resident of the converted warehouse, Howell alerted many residents to the fire and helped them escape.” _

The footage showed enormous orange and red flames reaching into the night, fire billowing from windows like stray curtains. Fire trucks lined the road, their jets of water looking puny and insubstantial against the flames. Trott couldn’t look away.

_ “Police have not released the identity of the other victim, pending notification of the family. Authorities are investigating it as an arson though no information was given about the method or motives. Several local artists lived in the building, but the exact number of tenants is unknown. A spokesman from the city council said they will look into the issue of unlicensed residences in the warehouse district. Next up we have Jim with the forecast and a look at-” _

The news switched over to a local weather report, and Trott finally punched the off button on the remote.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing here?” Trott’s voice echoed in the gallery, louder and shriller than he wanted to sound. Nina looked up from the front desk, surprise flitting across her face. The handful of people admiring the neon cityscapes turned around. Everyone except the person Trott stared at, nonchalantly standing in front of a painting of the City.

The man turned slowly, and gave Trott a slight smile. His dark hair was messy today, and he wore a casual black outfit of jeans and turtleneck under a leather jacket. A pair of headphones were slung around his neck, a Walkman clipped to his belt. His blue eyes were unsettlingly focused, thoughtful. There was no mistaking him though, not with that height. It was the man from the park bench earlier in the week. He looked better in these clothes, Trott thought. More like a real person instead of an actor in a costume. It was an absurd thought and he wondered why it ran through his brain. 

“Nina, call the police,” Trott snapped. He clenched one hand into a fist, trying to stop it from shaking. 

“Trott, what’s going on-” Nina lifted the phone, moving slowly. One of the older couples edged towards the door, murmuring to each other. 

“Please, I think there’s been a tremendous misunderstanding-”

“You’ve been following me!” The bracelets on Trott’s wrist clattered together. His hands were shaking.

“If I might give you my card-”

“I don’t want your card- _Nina_ , call the police!”

“What the hell is going on?” Kim stepped out of the back door, glancing around. The other couple fled, and the only person left was an art student. She was walking the line of paintings by the front window, lost in some personal reverie. 

“I don’t know,” Nina said, still holding the phone. 

“I came to apologize,” the man said. “When I spoke to you the other day, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Trott folded his arms, gripping his elbows. He was sure it made him look surly, but he had to get his hands to stop shaking. He could feel the blood heating up his face, the nervous impulse to yell and run surging in him. 

“Look, buddy, unless you want to talk to some cops I want an explanation of why you’re harassing my staff.” Kim stood with her hands on her hips, looking serious. She had on one of her bright red Chanel suits, and a string of pearls that made her look like one of the ladies who lunched at the big hotels for charity presentations. It made her scowl more intimidating.

“If it makes you feel better, please call them.” The man spread his hands. “I am terribly sorry, Trott. I should have been more upfront when I spoke to you. I wanted to assure you that you’re not in any trouble.”

“What are you talking about?” Kim stepped forward, her heels clicking on the floor. Nina glanced around from face to face, still holding the phone in one hand. Trott could hear the dial tone.

“My name is Ross Hornby, I’m a private investigator.” He gestured to the pocket of his pants. “I can show you my license and my business card.”

Not a reporter, Trott thought. A private investigator. That was something entirely more worrying.

“I’m trying to find someone, and I-”

“You’re trying to find Alex Smith, aren’t you?” Kim interrupted. Ross nodded eagerly, something lighting up in his expression. The relief and consternation Trott felt flooded through him, and he pressed a hand to his face. Not looking for him. Thank god.

“Nina, put the phone down,” Kim said wearily. There was a soft jingle as the headset landed in the cradle. The art student was still wandering the gallery, oblivious to their conversation. Kim eyed her for a moment, and shook her head.

“Whatever you’re doing, Mr. Hornby, I can assure you Alex Smith has never been in here at all.”

“I know, Miss Richards. All the same I had to come here.” 

Kim wrinkled her nose at the title.

“Unless Trott has some burning desire to talk to you…” Kim glanced at him. Trott shook his head. “I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“I understand. If you have any questions or want to talk…” He carefully placed a couple business cards on the front desk before striding out the front door. Trott watched him go. He was shaking, nerves making him feel like he’d just run blocks and blocks.

“What was that?” Nina exclaimed, her breath rushing out as the door shut. Trott watched Ross glance left and right on the sidewalk before walking away.

“Trott, are you okay?” Kim’s hand on his arm made him jump. “Whoah. Trott?”

“I’m fine,” Trott said automatically.

“Yeah, right.” Kim looked at him, her dark eyes apprehensive. “Has that guy been bothering you?”

“He came up to me in the park a couple days ago,” Trott said. “He knew my name. It was weird, and kind of creepy, and I thought… I thought he was looking for me. I didn’t even think about Smith and that whole mess. I should have known.”

Kim nodded. She knew Trott’s past was a difficult subject. Their friendship was deep, cemented with secrets and stories and family histories shared late in the night. Sitting on his fire escape while Kim smoked, or huddled in Kim’s enormous bed eating junk food, or in the booths of diners after leaving clubs for the comfort of fried eggs and potatoes. They knew more about each other than just about anyone else did.

“Why would he be looking for you?” Nina interrupted. Her perfect eyebrows were arched over her wide eyes, her lips parted on the question. Kim half turned, but Trott spoke first.

“Because I ran away and joined the circus when I was sixteen,” he said. 

“Sure.” Nina shrugged. “Whatever. But when was the last time you saw a circus? You need a better story, like, that you robbed a church or something.”

“A _church_?” Trott stared hard at Nina. She shrugged again, her porcelain doll face placid and unconcerned.

“Sounds more exciting, doesn’t it? Maybe you’re a secret Satanist. Everyone’s worried about Satanists now.”

Kim put her arm around Trott. He squeezed her hand and took a deep breath to compose himself.

“What do you even know about _Satanists_?” Kim asked, her voice thick with suppressed laughter. “Jesus, Nina, that’s bizarre.”

“Nothing, really.” Nina said. “I dated a guy who was really into heavy metal for awhile. I did his hair for him before he went on stage.”

Kim kept asking questions, dragging out the details of Nina’s apparently terrible heavy metal boyfriend. Trott excused himself. Locked in the small bathroom behind the office, he leaned against the wall and tried to make his heart stop pounding.

 

* * *

 

Once again, Trott hurried home with a sense of dread. He was antsy and nervous. Kim had asked if he wanted to stay at her place, but Trott just wanted to be home in his space. But he also felt like he was going to end up climbing the walls if he didn’t do something with all his nervous energy.

Putting away the laundry still sitting in the basket in the middle of the floor occupied most of Trott’s attention once he was home. He’d left it there for days, and things were wrinkled. He pulled out the iron from the kitchen cabinet, and tried to fix up the worst of it. It took forever, Trott cursing under his breath as he ironed out the wrinkles. All the things he’d washed in the tub had dried Sunday night, all his expensive undergarments and the pantyhose he loved and hated in equal measure. His room felt overwhelmed with laundry everywhere, drying and just piled in places. Trott wanted it done and put away. He was exceedingly grateful that when this building was divided into apartments someone had constructed a closet in this one. Even if it was small. He kept all his delicate things in the dresser, and his purses lived in a giant plastic bin shoved under his bed. The closet was crowded, organized by season and color, a rainbow of outfits hanging there.

When he was finally finished, Trott sat on his couch, legs folded underneath him. He eyed the business cards the private investigator left at the front desk. Trott had swiped them before Nina could, and they’d come home with him. Why he didn’t just throw them out, Trott didn’t know. But he didn’t want them hanging around the gallery. 

Ross Hornby, specialist investigator of Lighthouse Investigations. A simple sketch of a lighthouse with a beam of light aimed at his name. A phone number, and an address for an office somewhere uptown. Trott tried to imagine what a private detective’s office looked like. Full of filing cabinets, probably. 

It was a nice card, not a cheaply printed one. The card stock was thick, the printing crisp and clean. The ink was dark blue instead of black. Trott liked it, aesthetically speaking. He just wished he wasn’t involved in whatever this represented.

He found himself thinking of all the places he’d been, all the times he might have seen this man before. For some reason now, Trott was convinced the strange bouquet of flowers had been delivered by Ross. They drooped on his bedside table scattering petals, the water a little cloudy. He carried the vase to the kitchen counter. But instead of throwing them out, Trott changed the water. They would perk up a bit with cold water, and the color would stay for another couple days. 

His phone rang, startling Trott. He nearly dropped the vase. Hurriedly he stumbled over to where the phone still sat on the floor beside the couch. The long cord let him drag almost everywhere in his apartment, but he usually kept it there. The answering machine lived on a corner of the kitchen counter by the phone jack. 

It stopped ringing before he could reach it.

“Hello?” Only the dial tone greeted him. Trott carefully put the receiver down. He wondered. His fingers twitched, as if he should call Sips. But he didn’t know if that even was Sips. Maybe it was just a wrong number. For a moment he held his hand over the numbers, wondering if he should try to ring back. 

Maybe it was the private detective, Ross, or someone else looking for Smith. Maybe it was someone looking for him. That thought made Trott’s skin prickle, a cold shudder running up his back. 

Trott glanced at his windows, wide open to the night. He told himself that he was being crazy, that it was dumb. Maybe it was just a wrong number. Trott switched off the lights, and stood there in the gloom. It felt ridiculous, this anxiety and worry verging on paranoia. He perched on the arm of the couch, and looked out the window. There was nothing to see, no lurking figures in the shadows of the street lights, no binoculars trained on him from the roof of another building. Trott sat there for half an hour, waiting for something to happen. But the night continued on peacefully without any sign of threats or danger. Taxis rolled down the street. In the distance a siren wailed. A few people wandered the sidewalk, hitting up the all night store on the corner for beer or egg sandwiches. A completely ordinary November night, chilly and dark. Finally, Trott dragged himself into bed to curl up under his comforter. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While to some degree I'm pretending a lot of the homophobia/awfulness of the world doesn't exist (as much) in this City, it does still live as background radiation. There's some ugly language/slurs used in one scene fyi. It wasn't in my original plan to have this, but I think the scene is an important part of the developing relationship dynamic.

It didn’t take the tabloids long to connect the fire with Smith’s absence. The papers were full of glaring speculation, picking up on the still publicly unnamed second victim. It was definitely the warehouse where Smith lived. One of the papers ran side by side pictures, one from his first interview and the second from the day after the fire with an enormous red question mark. Half of them seemed to think Smith started the fire, and the other half thought Smith died in it. Even the regular city paper ran an article about artists living in the warehouses, and speculated about the loss of a million dollars of art in the fire. It did not mention the deaths. Trott found the entire thing repulsive. He suspected Sips was raging, wherever he was. 

“Can you believe this?” Trott grumbled, staring at a newstand where a tabloid headline read _ART FORTUNE DESTROYED IS SMITH RESPONSIBLE?_ “They think he burned down the building because he was jealous of someone else’s work?”

They were walking down to Jeffrey’s to get a couple drinks. Kim decided to close the gallery early because the weather was terrible, and there was nothing to do. The sidewalks were damp from the morning rain, and headlights reflected off puddles. It was gloomy. The other people on the street hurried past, tucked into their jackets with their heads down.

“Yes, I absolutely can believe that someone would believe that.” Kim adjusted her scarf, half pulling it over her hair. “I mean, you’ve met plenty of artists. It’s not as big a leap as like, aliens worship Oprah or whatever the Weekly has on the cover right now.”

“I guess you’re right,” Trott sighed.

The wind today was cold and damp, and they were both miserable for it. Kim’s coat was a big cream colored Vivienne Westwood jacket that she’d pulled around herself. It was meant to be loose, but Kim tucked the belt around her waist twice to keep it wrapped close.

“Have you talked to him?” she asked while they waited to cross the street. They stood well back from the curb, watching taxis splash through the dirty puddle at the edge of the street.

“No.” 

“ _Men_ ,” Kim sighed. “What an asshole.”

Trott didn’t reply. He tucked his hands in his pockets, thinking he should have put on gloves today. He’d need to break out the heavy winter coat soon. The one he wore now, a deep red that hung to mid thigh, was neither warm enough or long enough. His legs were cold. Pantyhose did not stop the wind from giving him goosebumps. His dress fluttered around his knees.

“Come with me this weekend. I’m going out of town for Mila’s birthday on Saturday. There’s plenty of room in her house.” Mila was one of Kim’s friends from her boarding school days, the daughter of a Russian ambassador who got kicked out of her Moscow ballet school for listening to forbidden rock music. She lived in an enormous mansion outside the city, just an hour up the coast. Her husband was some kind of businessman who was rarely home. Any other time, Trott might have jumped at the chance. But being around so many people, and around the inevitable casual sex Mila encouraged between her guests, sounded exhausting.

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Someone should look after the gallery.”

“You know we could just close it.” Kim did not appreciate the idea of regular hours.

“I know. I just sort of want to stay home.”

“But there will be lots of good looking people,” Kim teased. She looped her arm through Trott’s. “Pretty girls. Pretty boys. Someone will get naked and jump in the pool.”

“Or someone will get punched into the pool.” They both laughed. It was a running joke between them that every party Mila held in her house outside the city inevitably involved someone falling into the pool, by choice or not.

“Well if you change your mind, call me. I’m not leaving until lunch on Saturday.”

“Thank you.” They crossed the street, heading towards the glow of Jeffrey’s sign at the end of the block.

“Do you want to get food?” Kim asked, taking in the busy bar. “Let’s get a table.”

The lure of eating something other than potato chips or frozen food tempted Trott into ordering dinner. Jeffrey’s served a decent burger. Trott felt starved, belatedly realizing the last time he ate a meal not from a box or a food cart was days ago. 

Kim ordered the mussels frites, and Trott stole fries off her plate. Glasses of wine took away the chill. They talked and laughed, gossiping about Mila’s latest lover and who might be at her birthday this year, who Kim might tumble into her bed. A long time ago, Mila and Kim had been a thing. It didn’t so much stop as pause. They picked up again every time they met, as if no time had passed. Trott envied their ease with sex and what was probably love. It never felt that easy for him.

For a couple hours, Trott didn’t worry about anything. He left feeling better than he had since the Halloween Ball.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Trott was just about to settle into a warm bath when his phone started ringing. He lunged for it, thinking it was Kim. After drinks they split a cab home, neither of them enthused about walking through the wet gloom. She probably wanted to try to convince him to come along for the weekend. It might even work. But she probably also forgot something, and needed him to get it in the morning. 

“Hello?” Trott answered, dragging his phone towards the bathroom. The cord was just long enough that he could set the receiver on the floor. He thought about buying a cordless sometimes, but his apartment was small enough that it didn’t seem worthwhile when he could just buy a thirty foot cord instead. At least he’d never need to worry about running out of battery.

“Hey, Trott, how you doing?” Sips’ voice made him blink.

“Sips. Where have you been?” Trott leaned back heavily against the door. 

“Whoa, not even a hello, how you doing, I missed you?” Sips asked. He laughed, but there was something irritated in his voice.

“You don’t call, vanish for a week, and I shouldn’t even ask?” Trott pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain himself.

“Things happened, Trott. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me what’s going on, if I should be worried.” Trott held the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he slipped off his robe. He draped it on the rack with the towels, the satiny fabric trying to slip away under his fingers.

“What could you possibly have to worry about?” Sips asked, his voice reverting to a more casual pleasant voice.

“Did that fire burn down Smith’s place? Is he okay?” Trott lowered himself into the bath. He bit his lip at the heat but it the shock wore off quickly. He tried to settle in without splashing. The rose bubble bath smelled sweet and cloying in the small room. 

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Trott heard Sips exhale slowly. 

“What do you know about that fire?”

“It was on the news. The tabloids are going nuts. People died. _Oh god_. Please tell me he didn’t die.”

Sips laughed abruptly, and Trott shut his mouth with a click to stop babbling. The nervous flutter was back in the pit of his stomach.

“Smith is fine. He wasn’t even there, he moved out of there awhile ago. Actually I have him staying in my place outside the city right now while he gets set up in a new apartment.”

“He’s staying at your place?” Trott felt a weird twist in his stomach. He stretched his legs out, pushing his feet against the end of the tub. The foam on the water looked so white against the green enamel of the tub. Water dripped from the faucet. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a house out by Candlewood lake. The hard part will be getting him to move out, he’s probably enjoying all the quiet.” Sips chuckled again, quieter this time. “He spent most of the summer out there, running up my grocery bill and drinking all my booze.”

Trott twisted the phone cord around his fingers. He let himself sink a little, propping his feet up on the wall. Now or never, he told himself. 

“Are you sleeping with him?” he asked, forcing the words out quickly.

“What a question, Trott.” Sips sounded amused. “No I am not sleeping with him. Smith’s business, very important business. No way.”

It was Trott’s turn to exhale slowly.

“I’m sorry... I-”

“Trott. Shut up and listen to me. It’s fine. It’s just been a very difficult week with all this shit, I had to go out of town to get Smith set up at the house, and I’ve been chasing off reporters. I’m just fucking tired, I’m not sleeping with Smith, and you don’t have anything to worry about, okay?”

“How long do you think he’ll stay out there?” Trott asked in a small voice. 

“Through the end of the month probably. The gallery is storing a bunch of his art while he gets a lease on a proper place. One that isn’t a firetrap without any security.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that…” Trott twisted the cord again. Thinking of people taking paintings, burning a building down. “Do you think the fire had something to do with that? Someone trying to steal his paintings or something?”

“Who knows? We put all his stuff in a storage unit. I’m just glad it isn’t my problem anymore.” Trott listened to the click of a lighter, and the sound of Sips exhaling. He must be out on his terrace, Trott thought. He could picture it, Sips smoking and looking at the buildings in the night, the blink of the radio tower lights. He wondered if he should say something about Ross, the business cards he hadn’t thrown out yet. 

“How about I take you out to dinner tomorrow, to say I’m sorry?” Sips said after a moment of silence. “Sound good?”

“I can’t tomorrow,” Trott said a bit peevishly. He didn’t usually play coy with his dates, but he was tired and frustrated by Sips’ lack of concern. “I’m closing at the gallery for Kim, and I signed up for an aerobics class.”

“Aerobics.” Sips chuckled. “Alright, Saturday then. We’ll go to Lutece.”

“Lutece.” Trott blinked. The water waved as he shifted in the tub to sit up straighter.

“Of course, princess. I’ve already got a reservation.”

Trott almost whispered into the phone. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, Trott. Have fun at aerobics class, I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Night.” Trott leaned out of the tub to hang up the phone. Water dripped on the floor, but he didn’t mind. Sinking back into the bath, Trott felt relieved. Everything was going to be okay. He slipped down until the water hit his chin, and told himself everything would turn out just fine.

 

* * *

 

“Lutece, again!” Kim hugged him, and then punched him in the arm with a gleeful grin. Her giant red hoop earrings swung back and forth as she practically bounced on her toes.

“Oh please, like you couldn’t just go to Lutece.”

“I could but I want to go on a date!” She laughed, and plucked one of the roses from the arrangement on the desk. “On a date with someone who sends me flowers every week!”

Trott couldn’t resist smiling. There were so many flowers, three vases filled to bursting. One was entirely red roses, their scarlet blooms just opening. He wanted to bury his face in the bouquet. Their perfume was fresh, the smell of fresh cut greenery and sun warmed petals. They’d arrived this morning. The card read “I missed you.” It made Trott gasp a little, a pleasant warmth spreading in his chest.

“Nice apology roses by the way. You did good, making him send you flowers and take you out to dinner.” Kim sat on the edge of the desk, twirling the flower in her hand.

“I didn’t make him do anything.” Trott lifted his hands. “I don’t think anyone makes him do anything except his lawyer.”

“Well, either way.” She hugged him again. “I’m happy for you. Mila will be sad you’re not there, but she’ll understand.”

“Don’t fall in the pool.”

“What if I push someone else in the pool?” Kim cackled. “Maybe we should all just carry Mila up and throw her in. Maybe it should be birthday tradition.”

“Take a camera then. What is it, the 5th or 6th anniversary of her 24th birthday? Or is she just counting backwards now?”

“I can tell you’re in a better mood, your sense of humor has come back.” Kim hopped off the desk and held the flower over her head. She marched back to the office to finish up some paperwork before she took off for the afternoon. The phone started ringing again, and Trott went back to work. He lifted a stack of sales receipts and wondered if they could get Ocin to do another show. Her work was completely sold out, and people were still calling to ask about it. 

 

* * *

 

Trott slipped his dress over his head. It was sort of a sweater dress, slouchy and long sleeved. But it was red and glittering, covered in acrylic mirrored pieces that looked like pieces of glass. Soft on the inside, hard and shining on the outside. Trott adjusted the cuffs, and checked that the hem was falling comfortably at mid thigh. The wide neckline just showed off his collar bones. It made him feel more complete, to be dressed up, like now his reflection was truly him. It seemed luxe enough without being tacky to wear out to dinner.

His makeup box was getting full. Trott wondered if he should sit down and cull through it, throw out the colors that never worked or the old ones half melted. Maybe he’d just put them all in another box. The thought of getting rid of them pained him. Trott rifled through the tubes, looking for a color he half remembered buying in the drug store. Cheap lipsticks mingled with expensive ones, all side by side in the overstuffed kaboodle.

Tonight’s lipstick color was a deep red, with a hint of metallic sheen that echoed the shine of his dress. He leaned in close to the mirror, drawing the eyeliner under his eyes almost but not quite all the way. He dusted on violet shadows at the corners, and a lilac grey over his eyelids. It was nice, a little more subtle than usual. Trott tipped his head back and forth, looking at his neck. He needed to make another salon appointment soon. Years of waxing and plucking his facial hair definitely rendered it more wispy and sparse, but he got tired of plucking it all out one by one. It took ages. Every now and then a dark hair would appear in some awkward spot.

Finally satisfied he was as beautiful as he was going to get, Trott picked out bracelets. The chunky gold chain, a vintage Dior piece he’d found in a thrift store. His nice watch with the gold face and the black leather band. A pair of rhinestone bangles, barely wider than a piece of spaghetti. Coming his hair back, Trott decided to put in his favorite earrings. They were cheap, dangling metal lightning bolts on iridescent chains that hung almost to his shoulders. Trott liked the way they moved if he shook his head, the faint tinkle of the chains.

Trott slipped on his heels, and grabbed his clutch. He was going to splurge and get a cab. Walking in this dress would only draw attention he didn’t want. It was chilly, too. Enough that he needed his coat if he didn’t want to frozen. Trott slipped on his black wool coat, not bothering to do up the buttons. 

But to his surprise, a black car was already pulling up to the curb. Sips stepped out, and raised his eyebrows at Trott. He looked formal and impeccable in his dark suit, the golden orange shirt with a white collar, and the tie striped with red and gold.

“Going somewhere?” Sips asked, eyebrows raised. 

“To Lutece, I hope.” Trott smiled and stepped forward. “I didn’t know you were coming here, I was just going to hail a cab.”

Sips held him by the shoulders, looking him over. Trott opened his mouth, all the things he’d wanted to say held up in his brain. He was just so glad to see Sips again. 

“What are these?” Sips said, flicking one of Trott’s earrings.

“Uh, earrings?”

“You can’t wear those. Take them out.”

“What?”

“Take them out, Trott, and get in the car.” Sips watched him, his face inscrutable. 

“Are you kidding?” Trott raised his hand to touch his ear. “Seriously?”

Sips just sighed, and looked at him as if Trott was being particularly disappointing. Slightly hurt and baffled, Trott carefully pulled out the earrings and dropped them into his clutch.

“Much better. Now you’re perfect. We should get you some better earrings.” Sips smiled, and pulled Trott into the back of the town car. It rumbled into traffic, narrowly missing a delivery guy on a bicycle. He flung his hand up, middle finger extended. Trott turned from the window, sitting back in the leather set. He crossed his legs, still feeling a bit thrown off by Sips’ demand. 

“We’re having dinner with some business associates of mine.” Sips spoke without looking at him. “I hope you can be charming and talk about art for a few hours.”

“You’re taking me to a business dinner?” Trott asked, his voice rising incredulously. This was not turning out how he imagined. The whole thing felt off kilter. 

“You were the one who said no to Friday.” Sips shrugged. “The world keeps moving, Trott.”

“But..” He floundered, trying to think of something to say. “You didn’t say you were busy.”

“Killing two birds with one stone.” Sips laughed. “Besides, I’m counting on you to be beautiful enough to give me that edge.”

“What edge?”

“When you’re selling something, it is important to look like you’ve already got it all and don’t need their money.”

“That sounds wrong, but okay.”

“People like confidence as much as they like beautiful things,” Sips said. He leaned in close, speaking in a low voice. His warm hand slid up Trott’s thigh, pushing his legs apart. “You’re not like other women I’ve dated.”

“That’s because I’m not a woman,” Trott said carefully, unsure of where Sips was headed with this statement.

“Right. It’s not just because of what’s under your dress. But you’re smart, and you know how to act around people, and you know plenty about what’s beautiful, what’s fashionable.”

Trott swallowed. “But why do you-”

“I just want you to be yourself. Show them what incredible taste I have with someone like you on my arm. Charm them.” Sips squeezed Trott’s thigh, fingers just barely brushing his crotch. A spark of desire tingled in the pit of his stomach.

“Okay,” Trott agreed, because it was the only thing he could do. It was either that or what, get out of the car and go home? He hoped Sips really wasn’t going to want him to hard sell someone on buying… what? Smith’s paintings? They sold themselves. Maybe there was some other business deal at stake.  

“Good.” Sips kissed him, all too briefly. Trott missed the warmth and the feel of Sips’ mouth and hands when they moved away. The car bumped through a pothole, jostling them. In the front seat, the driver cursed quietly as he swerved the car around a stopped taxi. Trott reached for the seatbelt, thinking maybe he should use it for a change.

“Let me.” Sips pulled the belt tight across Trott’s lap. The buckle clicked into place, and Sips tugged to make sure it was tight. 

 

* * *

 

The coat check girl at Lutece gasped when she took Trott’s coat, pausing for a moment to stare.

“Oh god, _what a dress_ ,” she whispered as she passed Trott the slip. “You look _amazing_.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a quick smile before Sips pulled him into the restaurant. Her compliment gave him a boost, restoring Trott to some of the confidence he felt earlier in the evening. In Lutece’s pale dining room, he stood out like a flame as they walked between tables.

Their party was waiting, and a large table was ready for them towards the back of the restaurant. Two Englishmen in expensively tailored suits as well as Thomas Angor, the director of Skyblock, joined them at the round table. His beard and ponytail made him look a bit like a grizzled ex-rock star who had turned to a life of respectability after a few wild years. He wore a plain black suit and white shirt, the collar open at the neck. Instead of a tie, Angor wore a heavy silver chain. It was the cowboy boots with the suit, Trott thought, and the chain. They made him look less like a businessman.

Angor gave him a smile that was not quite genuine. Trott didn’t blame him. He wasn’t thrilled about the boss bringing his date to what was obviously a business dinner. Trott told himself he should have known when Sips said he already had a reservation. 

“Delighted,”  Paul Hadleigh said, holding up an empty glass during their introductions. He wasn’t quite as tall as Sips and Angor, but he had that same arrogant bearing. His dirty blond hair was combed back and frozen in place, highlighting his tall forehead and long nose. His thin lipped smile did not match the expression in his eyes. 

His companion, Mark Holmes, had the sober air of a lawyer or an accountant. He had a short, trimmed beard and wire framed glasses perched on his rounded face. They both wore pinstripe suits, though Paul’s was wider and his tie significantly more garish with gilded print. Holmes by contrast looked as if his suit was shrunk to fit him. It was well made though, and his shirt had French cuffs with small silver cufflinks. 

Sips ordered wine for the table, though he stopped short of actually ordering their meals. He did order Trott’s dinner. Trott stifled his impulse to interrupt and just order something different. At least this time Sips ordered the famous onion tart. Trott was dying to finally taste it, and he could forgo eating lamb braised in garlic this time. He was still a bit unsettled by their exchange in the car. From time to time he touched his neck, remembering his missing earrings. The sounds of crystal and silver from the dining room were not quite the same. 

“Did Sipsy boy here tell you how we met?” Paul laughed, directing his comment to Trott. He was onto his second glass of wine already. But the glassy light in his eyes came from whatever he drank before they arrived. Trott could see Angor watching Paul with thinly disguised loathing.

“No, I don’t think so.” Trott smiled, aiming for polite and interested. 

“The bastard stole my whore practically out from under me,” Paul complained. He gestured, his wine glass in hand, and Trott watched it nearly spill onto the white tablecloth. 

“Your horse?” Trott asked, hoping the man was not completely drunk already.

“My _whore_ ,” Paul repeated, enunciating the syllables slowly and loudly. An older man at another table glanced their way with a disapproving expression. “She got up from the table and half an hour later I tracked her down at the bar where he was charming his way into her lap.”

Trott tried to keep the smile plastered on his face. Across the table, Angor smirked and shook his head. He discreetly moved his water glass out of the range of Paul’s waving arm.

“What Paul’s not saying is that he’d half passed out, and she got bored when the champagne ran out. You’re lucky she didn’t just steal your wallet and leave.” Sips chuckled. He half turned to Trott. “We met in one of those ridiculous night clubs they have in London. Everyone’s falling down drunk on the dance floor, and doing cocaine in the bathrooms. Like here, but more ridiculous.”

“It’s tradition,” Paul sniffed, downing the rest of his wine. He leaned back in his chair, glancing around. A waiter appeared, silently refilling his glass. Trott wondered how high the bill for the wine would climb. He caught Sips’ eye, and remembered his instructions.

“I love dancing,” Trott said, hoping that would be enough to change the subject. “When the music is good, no one else in the room matters.”

“It’s good when you don’t want to talk, you just want to look,” Paul said. This time his tone was more suggestive. His eyes raked up and down Trott. It made him glad he’d gone for this dress and its boatneck instead of the black dress that plunged down to his sternum. 

“And you, Mr. Holmes?” Trott looked at the other man, trying to keep his voice light. Perhaps it would be easier to talk to him. Trott was painfully aware of Sips’s hand resting on his leg, and Paul staring at him across the table. “Do you like to dance?”

“I’m afraid not.” Mark inclined his head with a regretful smile. His wine was barely touched. 

“What do you do for fun then, when you’re not here?” 

“Gardening, mostly.”

“Flowers or vegetables?” Trott asked. This time his smile was genuine.

The light flashed on Mark’s glasses, and his expression brightened at the interest. “I participate in the village flower show, as I have quite a rose garden-”

“Holmes is a dreadfully boring, classic Englishman.” Paul held his glass up, the wine sloshing back and forth. “Leaves the city to go back to his little cottage, and it is an honest to god stone cottage, and potters around in the dirt in rubber boots-”

They were spared by the arrival of waiters bearing food. Trott held his fork, parting the crust of the onion tart with pleasure. He glanced sideways at Mark, who tucked his napkin and regarded his rabbit with a slight suspicion.

“You might have enjoyed one of our recent artists, we had an exhibit of still lives that was entirely flowers. She’s going round the country, taking pictures of home gardens and painting them.”

“Do you also work at Skyblock, Miss Trott?” Mark asked. Trott shook his head.

“No, I’m at a smaller gallery. We do more unknown artists.”

“So she’s _not_ a whore,” Interrupted Paul again. He held his glass up to Sips. Trott felt his smile freeze on his face. Mark sighed at his plate, and pushed his glasses up his nose. 

“The whores are out on Canal street. Trott here runs a gallery downtown on the east side,” Sips said. His expression was calm, slightly amused. Trott glanced at him, eyebrows slightly raised. He knew how to react to someone calling him a whore in many situations, especially one where he was mistaken for a woman, but he did not know what to do here. Throwing his drink in Paul’s face and storming out didn’t seem an option.

“ _He’s_ quite knowledgeable about the up and coming scene in the City,” Sips continued. The emphasis on the pronoun was unmistakable. Trott remained motionless, watching Sips. He could feel Mark’s furtive glance on his left. Across the table, Paul laughed again. It was just a little too loud. Angor was busy cutting into his fish, eating as if the rest of the table did not exist.

“Well, well, I didn’t know your tastes ran to trannies,” Paul said with a wide, vicious grin. Trott held his head up, trying not to show his emotions on his face. The sense of fury and embarrassment throbbed like a bad headache.

“When have you cared about anyone’s taste but your own?” Sips retorted. “I thought that is what made you the shit hot collector of London.”

“Of course it is. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Getting the jump on what’s new.” Paul picked up his knife and began stabbing at his veal. “But really, I’d rather you get me an actual woman if that’s what you want to do after this. I’m not into ladyboys.”

Trott was still frozen. He set down his fork, though he didn’t let go. 

“I took you out for sexy ladies last night.” Sips rolled his eyes, and cut a piece of his steak. “Tonight is just good wine and good food. But if that’s what you want, I’m sure Angor knows places you’d like. He loves strippers.”

Angor smirked over the edge of his glass. Trott caught his eye, and Angor gave a tiny shrug as if Trott should have expected things to turn out like this.  

Trott wondered what would have happened if he’d gone to dinner the night before, like Sips wanted. He felt briefly dizzy, like the floor had just dropped out from beneath him. He reached for his wine glass as if he could shield himself from all the unspoken things lingering in the air.

“I understand your estate is going to have an entirely new wing in a few months,” Angor said in his gravelly voice. He set his fork down, having devoured his meal before joining the conversation. 

“Yes, we’re demolishing the old formal garden to add a new extension to the house.” Paul grinned. “Being outside is so dull. That’s why I’m building the wing to house my art collection.”

“Are you staying in the style, or going modern?” Angor hooked his arm over the back of his chair, watching Paul ignore his food in favor of more wine.

“Oh the headaches I’ve had! My architects have been fighting with the planning council-” Paul began to monologue about the perils of owning a historic home, the National Trust, and other house problems. 

Trott caught the briefest of glances between Sips and Angor, as they steered the conversation back to art. Paul was more than happy to talk about his collection and the rooms he had to build for it. He vaguely mentioned wanting to start his own gallery, and Trott suspected that was the real point. Paul was not the kind of person to run a business. He’d pay someone else to do it for him. Sips must want in on this, he thought. There was a lot of money to be made breaking into a big place like London. 

Trott looked down at his plate. The onion tart was golden, crispy on top and full of melting onions in a buttery crust. His knuckles were white around the heavy fork. Deliberately, he cut a piece of tart and ate it.

Beside him, Sips refilled his wine glass. Under the table, he patted Trott’s leg, his hand pushing the hem of his dress up every so slightly. Trott wanted to dump a glass of water in his lap, or maybe he even stab his hand with the fork. But he smiled, and chewed. The tart was as good as he had imagined it would be.

 

* * *

 

When the interminable dinner finally ended, Trott gave himself a moment to pull his coat check slip out of his clutch. He didn’t trust himself to be convivial up close. Instead he drained the last of his cup of coffee while the others rose from their seats. Sips put his hand on Paul’s shoulder as he rose from the table. The two of them leaned together in conversation as they walked out the restaurant, Angor following behind them. To his surprise, Mark lingered at the table, and carefully pulled Trott’s chair back as if he was a waiter.

“I am terribly sorry.” Mark looked rather pained, his forehead wrinkled as he tried to grimace politely.

“For what?”

“My companion’s dreadful manners at the table to start,” Mark sighed. “I’m afraid once he has a few glasses of wine his decorum deserts him entirely. Also my apologies for mistaking you. I hope I did not make your evening unpleasant.”

Trott smiled tightly. He was still stinging from the scene, and from Sips not doing or saying a word to protest the assumption Trott was a whore. 

“It’s amazing what you can get away with when you have money,” Trott muttered under his breath. 

At the coat check, Mark insisted on helping Trott into his coat. When Trott turned, Mark took his hand.

“It was a pleasure to talk with you tonight,” he said. “You are absolutely lovely, prettier than any man or woman I’ve ever met in the Soho bars, and possessed of admirable self control.” Mark bent forward, and kissed the back of Trott’s hand. 

“Thank you,” Trott said, surprised by the gesture. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what a country gardener was doing in Soho bars, but Trott could guess. He squeezed Mark’s hand.

Outside the door, Sips eyed him when he exited with Mark. He was smoking. Paul leaned against the side of a limousine, the door open beside him and a chauffeur waiting with infinite patience. Angor slouched, his back to the restaurant.

“I hope the rest of your evening is more relaxing,” Mark said. He smiled, still holding Trott’s hand. His eyes were friendly and warm, dark in the golden lights in front of the restaurant. For a moment, Trott felt sorry for this man having to work with the drunken rich Englishman. He seemed entirely too nice for this evening. 

“Holmes! Quit flirting and get in the car!” Paul shouted. He wobbled, and the chauffeur had to help him into the seat, one hand poised to keep his head from striking the top of the door. Mark paused to say something to Angor, who joined them in the limousine. Sips clapped him on the back. Then they were gone, whisked away in the night. 

 

* * *

 

Trott was quiet in the car as they rode back to Sips’ place. The driver kept his eyes forward, the faintest sound of the radio audible in the backseat. Trott tried to imagine Mark in a garden, with low stone walls and carefully tended beds of flowers. Sips’ hand on his wrist startled him out of the reverie.

“ _What_ were you doing with Holmes back there?” Sips asked. His grip was too tight, squeezing Trott’s wrist so one of the bracelets dug painfully into his skin.

“He just helped me into my coat,” Trott said. “He was being a gentleman.”

“Were you flirting with him?”

“I thought you wanted me to be nice, and charming!” Trott tried to pull his arm away but Sips held on tightly. “You’re hurting me. Sips, please.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He apologized for how rude your friend was,” Trott snapped. 

“Paul’s not my friend, he’s business.” Sips looked at him, his eyes narrowed. The lights of the city slid past them, alternating shadows and darkness. Trott glanced toward the driver, but he was steadfastly ignoring the drama in the back seat of the car. He didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror.

“You let him call me a _whore_ ,” Trott said in a low voice that shook. He was frightened, he realized. Frightened, a bit humiliated, and completely unsure of what was happening.

“I let him make a fool of himself, which he will make up for by spending a lot of money at Skyblock when he sobers up tomorrow. That’s how these people work.” Sips let go of him, and sat back in his seat. Trott curled his arm to his chest, and turned to the window. Don’t cry, don’t cry, he told himself, feeling an ache in the back of his throat. Trott inhaled deeply and blinked to keep his eyes from welling up.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Sips said. He cracked the window and lit a cigarette. “I know you’re not a whore, anyone who matters knows that. This can’t be the first time someone’s called you a nasty name.”

“Never in front of my boyfriend, who just sat there!” Trott’s voice pitched up, almost cracking.

“I had the impression that you took care of yourself, that you didn’t need anybody to stand up for you.”

Any other time, Trott might have thought it was a compliment. But he didn’t know how to say he wanted Sips to be angry, to maybe threaten to hit the guy, to defend him. It would sound absurd. He breathed through his nose, trying to calm down.

“Anyways, Trott, if you wanted to say something you should have done it. No use being mad about it now.” Sips flicked the ash out the window. The smoke in the car made his eyes water. Trott stared at the lights of the city slipping past, and they blurred together.

 

* * *

 

“Come here, I have something to show you.” Sips snapped his fingers and bounded upstairs. Trott followed silently, his shoes loud on the stairs.

There was a small office room just off Sips’ bedroom. It held just a desk, and a low sofa. There was an enormous painting on one wall, and windows with a beautiful view down the avenue. Sips gestured to a door.

“Go on, open it.”

“The closet?” Trott looked at him. He still felt wary after the rest of the tense ride home. He didn’t exactly want to be here. He wanted to go home, take a shower, and go to bed. But here he was. Sips stood there impatiently watching. Trott steeled himself for some fresh humiliation. He flipped the switch for the small overhead track lights, and opened the door.

Inside the small walk in closet there were clothes. A delicate silk robe the color of caramel streaked with cream. A thicker terry cloth one, grey like the one hanging in Sips’ bathroom. There was an evening dress, a floor length dress of sleek golden scales. On the shelf a black sweatshirt was folded on top of a pair of sweatpants. A pair of plain white t-shirts hung beside a simple black skirt and a blazer. Trott opened a drawer, finding a dozen pairs of panties and more lingerie than he had ever owned. Nightgowns, all lace and sheer fabric, were folded neatly in rows. It looked like something right out of a department store. Trott’s own drawers didn’t look anything this organized.

On a shoe rack below the drawer, there were a pair of red velvet slippers, lined with black fur. They were embroidered with tiny golden stars. Beside were also a pair of grey low top tennis shoes, a pair of leather sandals with buckled straps, and a pair of slick black pumps with three inch heels. A couple locked filing cabinets had been shoved into the back, and the linens that had previously occupied most of the space were piled on top of them. 

“What is all this?” Trott asked. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“I thought if you were going to spend the night so often, it would be better to have a place for your clothes.” Sips leaned against the door frame, hands in his pockets. He had a sly smile on his face. “And some things here, in case you needed to change.”

Trott pulled one of the hangers off the rack, his expression wondering. The shirt was his size. So was the dress, it seemed. The shoes as well. 

“How did you know what to get?” Everything seemed to be the right size. It was all beautiful, expensive and new. The sweatpants felt like cashmere. Trott wanted to bury his face in the fabric.

“When we had you fitted for your ball gown.” Sips shrugged. “They still had the measurements. I had someone figure it out.”

The ballgown was there too, in a heavy garment bag. Trott touched it, feeling his chest tighten. He half wondered if Sips made Angor go buy all this, or if there was some assistant he delegated it all to. Maybe some part time employee of Skyblock had to go out and buy all this lingerie.

“Sips, this is… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, you can say thank you.” Sips approached him. “And tell me you like the clothes.”

“Thank you.” Trott turned his face up, meeting Sips for a kiss. Even after the nightmarish dinner, it was easy to melt into Sips’ arms.  “I do like them. It’s all so beautiful.”

“I knew you’d love it,” Sips said, kissing Trott’s jawline. His fingers curled around Trott’s hair, pulling his head slowly back so Sips could put his lips on the sensitive skin of Trott’s throat. He pulled them down to the floor.

“You’re going to get carpet burn,” Trott murmured, as Sips pushed up his dress. His hands caressed Trott’s thighs.

“We’ll go to bed in a minute.” Sips’ voice was muffled as he kissed Trott’s stomach, peeling down his pantyhose. “You should really wear stockings. Then you could leave them on.”

“Way too much hassle,” Trott said. He let his head fall back on the floor.

“I’ll buy you some for here,” Sips continued, as if Trott hadn’t spoken. He put his mouth to Trott’s panties, kissing the fabric. Trott groaned, getting hard. 

“Fuck, Sips, please.”

“Someone’s eager,” Sips said, his breath warm on Trott’s skin as he peeled away the fabric between them. He brushed his lips over Trott’s cock, and kissed at the soft roundness of his stomach.

As Trott’s moans rose, Sips kept teasing him. Back arched, he dug his head and shoulders into the floor while his feet slid back and forth along the carpet. Sips hands were splayed over his hips, pinning them down while he sucked Trott’s cock. The pleasure of it was intense, overwhelming, and Trott writhed in wordless pleasure. He hadn’t even jerked off in the days since he last saw Sips, and it didn’t take long to get him off. Trott moaned, his voice loud in the small room. The sensation of Sips swallowing, sucking down his come, made Trott yelp. He covered his face with one arm, breathing heavily. His orgasm made him shiver and collapse to the floor. He felt flushed, and heat seemed to rise off him in waves.

“Come on, princess.” Sips sat back on his heels, and pulled at Trott. “Let’s go finish this in the bed.” Trott let himself be led back into the bedroom and stripped down, all too eager to fall into bed with Sips. 

Lewis had begrudged him even keeping a toothbrush in his apartment. But here was a closet, and clothes, and the feeling that Sips wanted him to be a part of his life. Trott felt giddy and touched by Sips’ generosity. He could forgive the awkwardness of dinner. It wasn’t Sips’ fault that Paul was an asshole. It was just one of those things. What mattered was that Sips adored him, and how wanted Trott felt with him. That was the most important thing.


	11. Chapter 11

Things seemed to settle down as November dipped further into winter. Every day was a little shorter, the sunset coming long before the end of the work day. At closing time the lights of the gallery were a warm glow against the dark windows, shadowed pedestrians often coming close enough for the windows to illuminate their faces. Some nights the long walk home made Trott uneasy. He splurged on cabs a couple times, or hopped on a bus that took him slightly out of the way just to feel a little safer. Every time he looked over his shoulder he expected to see someone watching him, maybe Ross. But if he was there, Trott didn’t see him. That didn’t lessen his unease any.

Trott slipped easily back into the routine of work, aerobics class, drinks with Kim and Nina, and dinners with Sips. He kept a toothbrush in the rack of Sips’ bathroom, and added a small bag of makeup to the closet. They were small things, but it they made Trott feel loved. It was proof he occupied a place in Sips’ life. He was valued enough to be included in his home in this small way.

The only discordant note of Trott’s life was the phone calls. Trott had written off the first couple as just mistakes. But they were happening a couple times a week now. He’d answer the phone and there would only be silence on the line. Sometimes he just hung up straight away. A couple times Trott held the phone tight to his ear for long moments. Barely breathing, he strained to hear anything on the line that might reveal who it was. Sometimes he imagined he could hear someone else breathing but he couldn’t be sure. One time he just sat there, listening, until the other person hung up. The calls made him deeply uneasy. There was nothing scary or threatening about them, no creepy comments to complain about. Just the silence and the feeling that someone was on the other end was somehow watching him. Trott bought curtains, and spent an afternoon standing on a ladder borrowed from the building supervisor to hang them. They were pale blue, a little bit sheer so the light could still come into the room. But it made him feel better at night to close them. 

At work, Trott didn’t have time to worry about Smith or weird phone calls. The Nano was busy with people coming by to look at the Ocin cityscapes. It had turned into one of their most popular exhibits thanks to the newspaper coverage. Art students and tourists came to the gallery to admire the pieces. Trott got used to seeing people lurking outside in the morning before opening, and having to gently herd them out in the door in the evening. He even sent Nina down to the print shop to pick up an order of fliers with Mary Ocin’s biography, and a bit about the Nano. Color printing was expensive, but the small reproduction of one of the paintings across the top was key. It kept them from reciting the same things twenty times a day, and functioned as a souvenir for people who weren’t going to buy one of these paintings. Perhaps they’d have to start doing this for more shows, Trott thought as he watched a girl slip one into her notebook. 

But despite the phone calls, Trott was happy. Even the tabloids seemed better. The headlines about Smith disappeared, replaced first with an actress arrested at the airport for drunkenly slapping a flight attendant and her subsequent arrest. Then it was stories about Madonna and pop stars who hid their black eyes behind oversized sunglasses. Trott let his eyes skim over them on his walk to work, hoping that perhaps all this business about Smith would just sink out of sight.

It was cold, but sunny. He wore his black suede boots with low heels, enjoying the brief swish of cold air on his knees. The black wool pencil skirt was one of his favorite things, because it was warm but also cute. With a shimmery grey silk blouse and a sleeveless teal sweater, he felt cute and professional. His wrists were covered in bracelets, as many as he could slip on before running out the door. His lipstick was bright, frosted fuchsia, another one of his lunchtime purchases at the drugstore near the Nano. Trott was in a mood for purples, fuschias, maroons, all the dark colors of autumn. 

The Bazaar, one of the high fashion magazines, wanted to do a feature. They opened the Nano just for the photographer and reporter on a Monday. Ocin was bemused by all the attention but enjoying it. Nina offered to do her hair before the interview, combing the tangles out of her grey streaked brown curls. While Kim hovered near the reporter, talking in a low voice, Trott made sure their press release packet was up to date. He couldn’t help but adjust his sweater and hope he looked fashionable enough with his hair loose and recently bleached. He put on his glasses, looking over the cat’s eye frames as the office door opened.

Whatever magic Nina had worked made Ocin look more confident. Her hair was caught back in a ponytail, brushed in big loose curls. A lock fell down the side of her face. In her oversized white dress shirt over a black bodysuit and faded men’s jeans, she looked exactly how people wanted to imagine successful artists looked. Someone looking at her wouldn’t imagine she commuted into the city from across the river, or that she’d spent most of the past fifteen years working as a secretary for an accounting firm. Trott could see the reporter’s smile when she glanced up from her notepad. The photographer, a short, dark skinned man with tattoos on his bare scalp, hustled Ocin towards the windows to catch some of the late morning light. 

“What do you think?” Trott whispered to Kim as they sat up at the front desk watching the interview on the far side of the gallery. The photographer clicked away as the reporter spoke with Ocin. 

“Nina can make anyone look great,” Kim whispered back. “She could get good work as a stylist if she wanted.” Kim toyed with the large bow on the front of her belt. She wore a white, high necked blouse and a black knee length skirt, aiming for something midway between artistic and business-like. Her hose were bright red. 

“Are they going to talk about the gallery?”

“Oh yes.” Kim flashed him a conspiratorial grin. 

By the time the magazine was finished and Ocin on her way back home it was just after 3pm. 

“The cook at the campus cafe told me about a bar, one where a lot of restaurant people go when they aren’t working,” Nina said, slinging her bag over one shoulder. She wore a pair of acid washed jeans, with zippers at the ankles, and an oversized sweatshirt. 

“Great,” Kim agreed, and locked the front door. “Let’s go.” Most everything they usually frequented was closed on a Monday, so they followed Nina onto the subway and across town. It wasn’t far from the city university and the art school, in the back of an unremarkable building. The ground floor appeared to be a vacated retail space, and nothing about the ordinary sidewalk hinted that just beyond a narrow metal gate was a door that opened into a noisy dive bar. It reminded Trott instantly of the dirty punk places he’d visited in his first years in the city. It was crammed with people speaking multiple languages, covered in tattoos, burn scars and the occasional knife wound. 

“I love chefs,” Nina declared over the loud music as they carried their drinks to a booth. 

“I didn’t peg you as the cocaine party type.” Kim raised her eyebrows.

“I just like their enthusiasm,” Nina said. She pushed her braid over her shoulder. “Plus they never want you to cook for them. I don’t have to do their drugs to fuck them.”

“The hangover is horrible,” Trott said.

“Not worth it when you end up having to get a nose job to fix your septum.” Kim grimaced. “My brother in law is a doctor and says that apparently everyone ends up ruining their nose.”

“Gross.” Nina grimaced.

“The real anti-drug ads should be that,” Trott suggested. “Don’t do drugs or you’ll lose your nose and be hideous.”

“Your skin will dry up, and you’ll be wrinkled and leathery,” Nina said with mock severity.

“Plus you’ll get that weird belly fat that never goes away.” 

“It could just be naked people with no noses, and terrible skin,” Nina continued. “Damn. I should make that my next project.”

“Art school anti-drug ads, making drugs too uncool to use,” Kim quipped. They all laughed and clinked their glasses. Behind them, a group of chefs downed shots of tequila and cheered each other. A short, brown skinned man walked past their booth on his way to the bar, and Nina watched him over the rim of her glass with an appraising eye. The music was loud, some kind of glam rock with lots of guitar solos. Trott sat back in the wooden booth, crossing his legs and swinging one foot. 

“Did you see all those tattoos?” Nina sighed a bit dreamily.

“Should you really go after someone with a bunch of knives tattooed on their arms?” Kim asked. 

“Maybe I just want to draw him.”

“Yeah, after you’ve fucked his brains out,” Trott laughed. Nina stuck out her tongue, and slipped out of the booth to buy more drinks. 

 

* * *

 

Sips’ bedroom was softly lit, just the bedside lamp glowing. Outside the sky was dark except for the glitter of radio towers and the tops of buildings.

“Wait,” Trott whispered, feeling panic rising in his chest. He tried to sit up, laying on Sips’ bed in only his hose and a pair of panties. His red sheath dress was crumpled on the floor where Sips tossed it after pulling it over his head. 

“It’s alright.” Sips straddled him, pinning Trott to the bed. “I got you.” He held the handcuffs in one hand.

“Shouldn’t those be like, furry or padded or leopard print or something?” Trott asked.

“The joke ones are worthless,” Sips said. “These are the real deal. If we lose this key, we’ll need to get bolt cutters to get you loose.”

“That’s not making me feel better.” Trott tried to scoot up to sit, but Sips was too heavy on him. “I had bruises last time.” And the time before that, and the time before that one. At least now it was cold and easy to keep his arms covered. But Trott still bought a second bottle of concealer to keep in his closet at Sips’ place. He didn’t want someone to see the bruises and misunderstand something.

“Well, don’t fight it so much.” Sips took his left wrist and snapped the cuff on. The metal was cold and heavy. Trott swallowed, trying not to pull away. At least this time he was on his back, and he wasn’t gagged. 

Sips pulled his hands up to the headboard, pulling the cuff through one of the bars. He snapped the other one on Trott’s right wrist.

“There. They aren’t too tight. Just don’t pull on them, and you won’t hurt yourself.”

“Sips, please, can’t we use something else?”

“Hush.” Sips leaned in and kissed him. “You love this. You know you do.”

Cuffed to the bed, Trott couldn’t stop Sips from pulling his hose down so roughly they tore. His hand settled heavily on Trott’s crotch, rubbing insistently. Despite himself, Trott felt aroused. The first lick of Sips’ tongue made his hips buck upwards. Soon Sips was sucking him off, his head moving up and down as he swallowed Trott’s cock. Being unable to move with Sips on his legs and his hands cuffed, all Trott could do was moan and beg. He tried to keep his voice down, hoping that if he wasn’t too loud, Sips wouldn’t think about gagging him.

The pleasure made him frantic, and Trott couldn’t help his whimpers as Sips sucked harder. He tugged at Trott’s balls, roughly fondling him. His fingers circled the base of Trott’s cock, squeezing more and more until Trott cried out. Back arched, Trott trembled through an orgasm that made his mind go blank. It wasn’t until it was over that Trott realized he’d pulled too hard and bruised his wrists again.

 

* * *

 

Sips wasn’t wrong. The blow jobs were incredible. Trott wasn’t used to someone paying so much attention to him, lavishing that amount of touch and pleasure on him. He found it overwhelming. It was so easy to sink into the sensations, to just stop thinking. 

Sometimes the sex hurt. Sips could be rough, especially when he used a toy to stretch Trott open or when he fucked Trott facedown on the bed. But it wasn’t like Sips was trying to be mean or to hurt him. It was the opposite. That made it all the more confusing to Trott, and he wished he could think less overall. It would be easier. 

Kim had seen, at least once or twice now. Trott was careful to laugh when she asked, and talk about how they’d been drunk, gotten too rough. He implied that he’d left ecstatic scratch marks all over Sips the time before so Sips had grabbed his wrists. Trott was fairly certain she believed the lie, though it made him feel terrible. But it felt like such a weird, complicated thing that he didn’t understand yet himself. Trying to explain it seemed impossible. Even to Kim. Trott looked at his arms in the shower, tracing a faded mark on his arm and the fresh blue one across the back of his wrist. It didn’t matter how careful he was, something always happened. 

He dried himself off with one of the luxurious towels and then slipped one of the nightgowns over his head. It felt light as air, just barely clinging to his skin. It fell to his calves, the spaghetti straps and the delicate lace edges burnished gold against the rose colored silk. The tiny label sewn into the hem was a designer name, something Trott knew cost half his rent. 

Downstairs, Sips was flipping channels on the television. He lounged in an old blue sweatshirt and a pair of boxers. It made him look slightly incongruous in the sleek, modern space, like a television dad who wandered onto the wrong set. He sprawled in his favorite chair, an expensive black leather Eames, one foot resting on the opposite knee. A glass rested on the end table, just one ice cube melting in it.

“I’m gonna be out of town for the holiday,” Sips said, looking up at Trott’s entrance. “Just so you know. I’m leaving town on Tuesday, probably won’t be back until Sunday.”

“Okay,” Trott said. He stared at the painting on the wall, concentrating on the branching golden lines spread over the grey and green smudges. He liked this painting but he couldn’t remember who it was by. “Is it Smith? Or just the holidays?”

“Smith doesn’t need me for Thanksgiving.” 

Trott shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant about it. They hadn’t spoken about Smith in the past week. The tabloids were still running the occasional headline about his absence. The last one Trott saw was something about how Marjorie Astor Cohen spent more than a million dollars on a single painting. He wondered if she ever got to have her tea with Smith.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving, Trott?” Sips tipped his head sideways, watching him with the look of a bird waiting for someone to leave their food unattended. Trott fought the urge to look down at his hands, or fidget with the straps of the nightgown. He sat on the sofa, feet tucked up and his elbow on the back cushion. Sips switched the channel to MTV, and turned the sound down low. He tapped the remote on his leg to the beat. Trott stared at the video, unsure who it was.

“No, I imagine I’ll go to Kim’s like I usually do. Her family always has a party.” The Richards didn’t see much of their extended family, and had never quite lost their bemusement over the importance of the American holiday. So they held an extended cocktail party, with a buffet of food that mixed American Thanksgiving with more unusual things. There was always a bowl of punch, and cocktails later in the evening for guests. People filled the spacious apartment, all friends of the Richards and their children. Trott quite liked it as it was not traditional at all. 

Trott hadn’t actually confirmed to Kim that he would be there. He’d half hoped perhaps Sips would be in town. But that was foolish, he told himself. People had families, often ones they liked to see. Or at least ones they didn’t actively avoid.

“Not going home for the holidays?”

“This is my home.”

“I mean to your family.” Sips’ dark brown eyes stayed on Trott, and his focus made Trott feel nervous.

Trott shook his head slowly, not wanting to get into it. “Is that where you’re going? To your family?”

“I’d never hear the end of it from Mom if I didn’t.” Sips smiled and leaned over to pick up his glass from the floor. The ice cube rattled around in the last of his cocktail.

“Where?” he asked. 

“Just across the river.” Sips picked up his glass, swirling the ice cube around before setting it back down.

“That’s where I grew up. Close enough to see the city lights at night. My dad worked in the city but my mom thought it would be child abuse for a kid to grow up here.” He chuckled. “She was very insistent on the white picket fence, the yard, a dog, a park for Little League games, church, bake sales, the whole dream of happiness and prosperity.”

Trott couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at the scorn in Sips’ voice. 

“You sound like you hated it.”

“Well, I wanted to be here. Not waiting on the sidelines, watching, content with a little suburban house and yard and a two car garage. I wanted more.”

Trott shook his head with a bitter smile. There was a time when he envied the people living in places with two car garages and fenced yards. Envied them so much he fantasized about breaking into their homes, living there in the hours they were gone or when they went on family vacations. He envied anyone who had a house instead of a trailer, who didn’t worry about the soft, sagging places in the floor, who didn’t freeze in winter when the cold air came through the cracked windows, who didn’t worry about the neighbor’s angry dog getting loose if they were outside.

Sips gave him a strange look. “What?”

“I can’t imagine you in a place like that,” Trott said, waving a hand to dismiss the memories of childhood.

“Exactly.” Sips held the glass on his stomach. “I’d lose my fucking mind if my entertainment was Sunday dinners and Little League games. But it is the only thing my mom ever wanted, so she stays there. I offered to move her into a nicer place, but she doesn’t want to leave.”

“What about your dad?”

“Dead,” Sips said simply. “He had a heart attack when I was twenty and in college. Dropped dead right at work, just how I’d always imagined.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was very wrapped up in the idea that a man had to provide for his family. It was everything to him. So he died doing what he loved.” Sips smiled. Trott found the humor a little weird. But he couldn’t judge Sips for it. His own relationship with his parents was fraught with so many things unsaid, things that were said and couldn’t be taken back. 

“But Mom, she’s happy right where she is with bridge club and the ladies group at church and doing bake sales. She’d be happier if I got married and brought grandkids around, as she never ceases to remind me. But she’s got a good life and nothing to worry about.”

“Is that… something you want? Kids, and all that?” Trott looked back at the painting. The memories of arguments with Lewis surfaced, his angry insistence that Trott could never give him what he truly wanted.

“Fuck no, Trott.” Sips laughed loudly. “Can you imagine me with kids? I’d have to put all the art behind glass, and get a nanny to make sure they went to school. Besides. You don’t exactly look like the childbearing type.” He levered himself up from the chair and went to pour himself another drink.

Trott let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He swallowed, feeling a shaky sense of relief. The touch of Sips’ hand on his bare shoulder drew him out of that moment of reflection.

“Here.” Sips handed him a glass. The amber liquid swirled around the large ice cube. Whiskey and cherry liqueur burned in the back of his mouth.

“What’s the deal with your family, and why you aren’t going home?” Sips sat on the couch beside Trott, watching him with that curious, intent expression again. Trott took a deep breath, and another swallow of the drink.

“It’s not very interesting.”

“Let me guess, you ran away from home to come to the bright lights and big city because you were never going to survive in some small town.” Sips traced his finger along the top of Trott’s shoulder, along the neckline of his dress and his collarbone. “Too pretty. Too much like a girl.”

“Something like that,” Trott agreed. Sips’ hand moved up to his neck, lifting Trott’s chin. His thumb stroked the curve of Trott’s adam’s apple.

“Did they catch you dressing up in girl’s clothes? Kissing a boy?”

Trott looked away, turning his head. Sips pulled his chin back.

“How old were you when you left?”

“Seventeen, old enough.” Just barely seventeen. A few days before his birthday, in truth. He turned seventeen the day the bus dropped him off in the City.

“You ever been back?”

“No.”

“You ever talk to them? Send a postcard, anything?”

“No.” Trott shook his head. He thought a few times about sending a postcard home. Sometimes he imagined writing that he was alright and they shouldn’t worry. Sometimes he imagined writing that he was happy, happier than he had ever been in his years with them. But Trott never made himself actually send it. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I didn’t want to give them any reason to find me.” His parents could guess, but Trott felt better being a ghost in their lives.

“I see.” Sips looked at him a moment longer, then turned away to take a drink. Trott pulled his chin out of Sips’ grasp, and held his glass to his face. The chill was soothing, helped him settle himself in the moment instead of his memories.

“It wasn’t like some TV movie. It just. There was nothing for me there, and there wasn’t ever going to be anything. I had to leave.”

“I’m not judging you, Trott. I just want to know.” Sips moved closer, sliding an arm around him. “I adore you. I love you. I want to know everything about you.”

Trott’s breath caught in his throat.

“You look so surprised.” Sips smiled. 

“I… “ Trott found himself blushing, surprised at how caught off guard he was. 

“What, too fast?” Sips tilted his head. 

“No, it’s not that, it’s just. I guess I didn’t expect it.”

“That I would fall in love with you?” Sips took his glass and set it on the coffee table before gathering Trott up in his arms. They kissed, slow and sensually. 

“I guess I could show you, but I thought you already knew.” Sips nuzzled his neck. “I’ve been hoping to hear you say it.”

“Me?” Trott held Sips tightly. “I thought most men didn’t like to hear it so soon.” His thoughts raced. Of course, he’d felt giddy and head over heels and he loved the moments when Sips’ attention was all on him. Was he in love? Was he sure? The doubt made him feel disloyal, like a terrible person. How could he not love a man who took him to these beautiful places, who made a space for him in his own home, who loved him already?

Sips’ breath tickled, his mouth moving to the space just behind Trott’s ear. 

“I want you to say it.”

“I love you,” Trott said slowly. 

“Good.” Sips kissed along his jaw. “Come upstairs, princess, and you can show me just how much you love me.” He lifted Trott from the couch, and carried him upstairs to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

“Trott!” Kim flung open the front door before the elevator doors even closed behind him. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mother is making me crazy.”

“Are you drinking already?” Trott laughed. His heels clicked on the marble floor of the entryway. 

“I could use a drink,” Kim muttered under her breath. A group of small, shrieking children raced through the hall in pursuit of a tiny white dog. The sound of Diana Richards’ voice carried, chastising the children for their running. Kim pulled him quickly down the hall before Trott could even pull off his coat. 

The Richards apartment always impressed Trott, no matter how many times he saw it. From the views of the city to the art on the walls, the enormous rooms with their high ceilings, the parquet floors, it all screamed of a certain kind of luxury Trott thought only existed in magazines. The furniture hadn’t changed much in more than a decade but it was all the sort of stuff that was expensive and well kept. It managed to look sleek and fashionable without being new and without being a time capsule. Trott rather liked the mid-century modern, minimalist look they had. Kim said her siblings tended towards overstuffed sofas and furniture they could junk in a few years once the kids stopped scribbling and spilling on it. 

They were so high up, on the 40th floor in one of the older towers that used some of the stonework of previous buildings. It was almost fifty floors of glass and steel ornamented with stripes of limestone and granite. The Richards owned a significant chunk of the building between the couple apartments that Kim’s siblings occupied and this one. It was a mini city within the City, and the Richards had their own mini place within that. When they first met, he’d wondered how anyone could keep living with their parents. But after seeing the apartment, the size and the luxury answered the question for him. Here Kim never had to do her own laundry, and there was an elevator, along with a pool, a spa and salon, a gym, restaurants, and even a small sort of grocery store that was heavily stocked with expensive produce and pasta. 

As usual, the furniture had been rearranged to accommodate the buffet. The elegant wooden dining table had vanished somewhere to make room for narrow tables to hold all the dishes. The dining chairs were scattered in the living room to provide more seats. The catering staff, all dressed in black, bustled about, setting up trays and bowls and stacks of silverware. A bartender stood at the built in bar in the family room peeling and slicing lemons. 

Trott carried his small bag to her bedroom. He was going to spend the night, and as per their usual tradition of the past few years they’d watch the parade from her bedroom window while eating leftovers in the morning. They could only see a sliver of it, passing by down on 5th avenue. But watching it from up high was somehow much more fun than trying to find a good spot in the crowd or even watching it on TV while some inane reporter offered commentary.

Kim’s room was practically the size of his entire apartment. The midday sunlight illuminated it from the enormous floor to ceiling windows facing north and east. From the corner of the building they could see both the park and the glittering expanse of 6th avenue. It sometimes made Trott a little dizzy to sit on the loveseat by the windows and look out into the world. She had redone her room last year, much to her mother’s quiet horror. It was now gold, black and white instead of the princess pink it had been for so many years. She’d replaced the old, ornate wooden furniture with more modern pieces. Her wide low bed had a half moon headboard, and the built in shelves were all painted black now. A few pop art prints replaced the old paintings of birds that used to decorate the walls. She even had a brand new 32’ television with a vcr in her room. The loveseat by the windows was gold crushed velvet. The rug was concentric overlapping circles in black and white.

Even her bathroom was new, black and white subway tiles and a walk in shower with a glass brick wall. She had a built in vanity installed so she could sit and do her makeup in front of multiple mirrors. Trott envied the bathroom more than anything else. His was fine, but not glamorous. Certainly Kim never had to scrub the mildew from this one or deal with flickering light bulbs. 

“Apparently Charlotte’s kids have complained we don’t have a ‘real’ Thanksgiving,” Kim commented as Trott pulled off his coat. Charlotte was Kim’s oldest sister. A dutiful daughter, she brought her four children over every Sunday for family meals. Her husband was a plastic surgeon who spent his time making wealthy people not look their age.

“Real Thanksgiving is overrated,” Trott said. He draped his coat over the back of the desk chair. Hopefully he’d picked the right outfit for today. Dressing for the Richards Thanksgiving party always gave him headache. It was meant to be comfortable, but it was also an Event for Kim’s parents. There would be plenty of diamond necklaces and Ivy League sweatshirts, he knew. He’d put on an oversized royal blue sweater, and wore blue hose under his black skirt. With a pair of ankle boots, it looked casual but still nice. He wore his favorite earrings, and just a few sparkly bangles.

“Expect her to corner you and ask questions, she’s supposedly going to cook for them this weekend.”

“I’ll remind her to pull the guts out of the turkey before cooking it.”

“They come with the guts still inside?” Kim wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”

“They’re in a little bag, but yeah.” Trott leaned his chin on one hand. “Do you want turkey and mashed potatoes? Would it feel more festive?”

“Not really, no.” She shrugged.

“That’s not really the good part anyways.”

“What is then?”

“Pumpkin pie. And the rolls.”

“I don’t like things that orange.”

“It doesn’t taste orange. It tastes like cinnamon and butter and sugar, mostly.”

“Then why involve the pumpkin at all?”

Trott shrugged. “Tradition?”

“So where’s your boyfriend?” Kim asked.

“At his mother’s house.” Trott smiled slightly. “The inescapable family holiday obligation.”

“Did he invite you?”

“No, but…” Trott tried to repress a nervous grin, fidgeting with his bracelets. “He said he loved me.”

“ _No way._ ” Kim’s eyes widened. 

“ _Yes_ way,” Trott said, biting his lower lip to try to keep from grinning like a fool. “We were having a long talk about family stuff, and he said it.”

“Wow.” Kim sat on the arm of the loveseat. “That’s fast.”

“I know! I wasn’t expecting it at all, it just came out.” Trott held up his hands. “It wasn’t even like, me asking him about his feelings about us. We were just talking, about stuff, family stuff.”

“Did you tell him about your family and why you left?”

“No, not really. Just. Not any details. He asked if I was going home, and I said that there was nothing to go home to.”

“Wow.” Kim looked thoughtful, tapping her nails on the cushion. “Are you sure you want to be so serious with someone right now? Are you ready for that?”

“It’s been almost a year since Lewis.” Trott sighed. “I think I’m more than ready to try again. And this, I mean, I would be crazy not to try here.”

Kim slid down onto the seat beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. 

“I’m happy for you, Trott. You deserve good things.”

“Thanks.” Trott hugged her back. For a moment they sat there, heads together. “Now what are you going to wear?”

“I thought I’d wear that black and red polka dot dress, probably.”

“Come on, let me do your makeup. I got some new lipstick, it will be perfect on you.”

 

* * *

 

In a few hours, the apartment was crowded with all the members of the Richards family and their guests. They invited people who didn’t have family in the City, or who didn’t travel for whatever reason. It was an eclectic mix of people. Friends from Alden’s life working in the diplomatic service. Some of Diana’s divorced friends, the bishop from the church she attended, and her sister flown in from Hong Kong. A neighbor from a few floors down that Diana played tennis with regularly. The nanny for Charlotte’s children. Kim’s brother Gregory and his wife had invited her parents. The conversation filled the apartment, voices rising and falling. The handful of children were gathered around the television in the family room, watching MTV.

Between Kim’s siblings, there were six grandchildren already. It was one of those sore points with Kim and her parents, that she was not married or having children. Gregory had married last year, and Trott knew Kim was hoping they would start having children soon to take her mother’s attention away from the fact that Kim was much more focused on the Nano than dating. Her oldest sister Charlotte had four, and her other sister Lisa was pregnant with a third. Trott thought it might go easier if Kim just struck out on her own, but he kept his opinions to himself when it came to her family. Kim often confided in him, but he knew that things were always more complicated than they seemed.

Kim had invited Nina but she took the train home for a long weekend with her family. A couple of Kim’s friends from her boarding school years were in town, expats from France who didn’t mind American holidays if they didn’t have to exert much effort for them. Trott drifted from conversation to conversation, carrying his plate of food with him. A small catering staff appeared from time to time to refresh the buffet, and clear away any messes or empty dishes.

The Richards Thanksgiving was a slightly strange selection of foods, and only few of them were traditional. The potatoes were roasted instead of mashed. Usually there was some kind of roasted pheasant or duck instead of a turkey, or barbecued pork shellacked in a glossy, caramelized sauce. There was always a dish full of chicken rice, which Trott loved. There was something deeply comforting about the simple roasted chicken and rice glistening from the stock. The table had a spicy sour fish dish with a fiercely red sauce, and flatbreads served alongside fluffy dinner rolls. There were green beans, but they were stir fried with ginger and garlic instead of baked in a mushroom soup casserole. The cranberry sauce was chunky, full of actual fruit.

Instead of pie, there was a trifle, tiny fruit tarts and usually some kind of chocolate. This year it was an elaborate chocolate cake covered in a layer of fudge and a layer of marshmallow frosting, and topped with pecans and drizzles of chocolate sauce. Trott was fairly sure he’d seen something like on the cover of Good Housekeeping in the magazine rack at the bodega. Not that he imagined Mrs. Richards read Good Housekeeping. But he knew she would want to be on trend. He wondered if there was someone at the catering company who read magazines and kept on top of the most trendy dessert to offer. 

Near the desserts stood the punch bowl, as well as an urn of hot coffee, and sparkling water. The bartender was doing busy work in the family room, pouring wine and making simple cocktails. Alden stood there with some of his friends from the embassy, having one of those quiet and serious conversations about the current state of global politics, or perhaps just about their golf games.

Trott ate a bite of the roasted duck with cranberry sauce. It was so rich, the meat settling heavily in his stomach. Carefully he wiped his mouth, and wondered if he should go check his lipstick in the bathroom mirror. The frosted pink was quite pale, and his makeup put all the emphasis on his eyes tonight. Dark blue shadow covered his eyelids, and even in the dim, golden light of the apartment his cheeks were pink. Just enough to be nice looking, but not so dramatic that anyone could raise their eyebrows at him. The Richards had always been very gracious to him. But Trott could never quite shake the self conscious feeling that he didn’t belong in a place like this. That one day someone would realize he was just a poor kid from nowhere, and firmly escort him out the door.

It was nothing like the Thanksgiving meals Trott grew up having. Those involved everyone crammed into his grandmother’s farmhouse, all the aunts and uncles and cousins constantly roving through the small rooms. The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity he wasn’t allowed to enter, the oven opening and closing, pots boiling on the stove, dishes taking up all the counter. The little kitchen table would be covered in flour. 

Trott had never eaten at the adult’s table in the dining room where everyone crammed shoulder to shoulder around the long table. The children were always scattered through the living room at folding tables, or the wooden tables outside under the trees if the weather was nice enough. It was always the same meal. Turkey, with gravy and onions. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Green beans cooked in a casserole, soft and salty. Cranberry sauce from a can, sliced into rings, with mandarin orange segments on top. Brown bread and buttered white rolls. Zucchini baked and layered. Pumpkin pie, always.

There were never any cocktails or wine at Thanksgiving, or any other holiday. Trott’s grandmother was an adamant abstainer from alcohol and other vices. She grudgingly allowed coffee in her home, but nothing else. Often she refused to set foot in their house because of his father’s habit of drinking beer after dinner. Trott tried to imagine her at this party. She would probably start praying loudly for the souls of everyone present. She would declare the food too foreign, too strange, except for the rolls. But even those would probably be scorned as something that didn’t come from her own two hands. 

“Trott, I wanted to speak with you a moment.” Diana Richards stood beside him. In her blue dress covered with glittering appliques, and her low cone heels, she was only slightly less intimidating than usual. It was the shoulder pads, Trott thought. The shoulder pads made her look a bit like a general, with her stiff posture and her unblinking gaze. 

“Mrs. Richards, thank you for having me over,” Trott said, setting his plate carefully on the table by the window. 

“Of course.” Diana nodded, before steering Trott by the elbow closer to the window. “I want to talk to you about Kim.”

“About Kim?” Trott felt a little nervous. “Is everything alright?” He never could quite guess what Diana was thinking. She was so often severe. But sometimes she had these flashes of humor, and when she was around the grandchildren she was affectionate and loving. 

“Oh, she’s fine.” Diana waved one hand dismissively, before taking a sip of her white wine. “But she is going to turn 28 this year.”

“Yes.” Trott nodded. He had suspicions about where this conversation was headed.

“When I was her age, I was already done having babies,” Diana said with a sigh. “I do not want my daughter to end up a lonely spinster.”

“Young women marry much later these days,” Trott said carefully. “And she has the Nano.”

“An art gallery is not a child,” Diana sniffed. 

“No,” Trott agreed. He racked his brain for something to say to defend Kim without being rude. “But a woman with a successful career has a lot of freedom to decide who to spend her life with. She doesn’t have to depend on anyone, or please everyone…” 

“She’s too picky. Or not picky enough. I don’t know.” Diana frowned briefly, before looking Trott up and down with her evaluating gaze. The hoop earrings she wore sparkled as she moved. “You’re her close friend. She doesn’t listen to her mother. So you should encourage her to settle down.” There was an unspoken ‘or else’ lingering after her words.

“I’ll do my best to look out for her,” Trott promised. Diana lifted her chin with a sharp nod before turning away. 

Trott took a deep breath, relieved to be free of Diana’s scrutiny. One of the catering staff had already swept away his plate. Trott walked into the family room. The children had all been shuffled off somewhere, and the television was off. A few small groups talked on the wide, low sofas. Trott caught Kim’s eye, and worked his way across the room to her side where she leaned against the bar. Her knee length dress was extravagantly covered in red polka dots, and she’d kicked off her shoes some time ago. 

“Drink? You need a drink. Two more for us, please.” Kim pushed her empty glass across the marble surface. The hired bartender popped open a can of soda and mixed up two rum and cokes for them, putting a narrow wedge of lemon on each one.

“I think your mother just made a threat,” Trott whispered in Kim’s ear, half amused and half serious.

“What?”

“If you don’t find a husband soon, I think she’s going to find one for you.”

“ _Great_.” Kim rolled her eyes before looking over her shoulder for any sign of her parents. “Guess that means we need to go out more.”

“Maybe we should hire someone.”

“What, an escort?”

“A fake boyfriend,” Trott said. “We could buy you at least a year, maybe longer. It could work.”

“Maybe if I turn 30, she’ll give up on me entirely,” Kim grumbled.

“Can you see your mother just giving up?” Trott didn’t think Diana would just let her youngest child do whatever she wanted.

“No,” Kim said. “She doesn’t give up. That’s the problem.” She tapped her glass against Trott’s, and downed her drink with a grimace. Trott rubbed her back , and gestured for the bartender to pour a couple more.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a gigantic update because I couldn't quite figure out how to split up this section. Also I am working on novel rewrites/edits so updates may be slower as we go. Thanks for reading and all the comments, you really motivate and inspire me to keep going at this story even when I feel like I don't know what I'm doing!

The days after a holiday always left Trott at loose ends. He decided to go do a little grocery shopping, and talk a walk around the neighborhood. He didn’t want to spend his entire day waiting for the phone to ring, hoping it was Sips and not the disturbing empty line. He contemplated calling the phone company while he fixed his makeup, brushing on a bit of soft, silvery blue eyeshadow. Any way he tried to explain it sounded a bit hysterical and he didn’t know if they could really even do anything aside from change his number. It wasn’t worth the hassle or the time.

Trott picked up a tube of lipstick, and wondered why he bought anything called ‘raisin.’ He didn’t like raisins. The color wasn’t much more appealing when he twisted it open. He dabbed a little on his lower lip, and contemplated it for a moment before wiping it away. Too dark for the day, too dark to wear without a face full of makeup. He just wanted to go out and not look terrible while he ran a few errands. He picked up another tube, the more reliable ‘English rose’ that went on a warm pink. 

He tugged at his dark blue corduroy pants, pulling them up so he could step into his grey ankle boots. These didn’t have any heel, a better choice if he wanted to buy some groceries and carry them home. He slipped on the light grey sweater, with its horizontal acetate stripes. The top one was red, and they faded in an ombre to the dark blue almost black stripe at the hem. It was a cheap sweater but it was comfortable. More importantly, it wouldn’t bunch up under his coat. 

Trott leaned close to the mirror, running a hand through his hair. He needed to make time to get his roots taken care, and soon. They were coming in dark. A little was not so bad, but too much would look cheap. He knew that Sips would say something if he let it go too long. Trott made a mental note to call the salon tomorrow and make an appointment. 

Combing his hair with his fingers, Trott dabbed a little mousse into it to give it some body. It could be messy today. There was no one he needed to look good for. He slipped in a pair of red hoops, and a couple gold bangles over one wrist. No one would notice them and they would just get caught in his sleeves. But Trott felt better having them there. 

On the front step of the building, Trott looked up and down the street. It was quiet, even for a Sunday morning. The gloomy weather kept everyone inside with their leftovers. He buttoned up his coat and started walking. 

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Ross Hornby hadn’t shown up at the Nano again. Trott couldn’t help but watch for him though. He half expected to see him outside the gallery in the mornings, watching from across the street. Instead Trott ran into him at his neighborhood coffee shop on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Once the sun tried to peek through the clouds, the streets were crowded with people visiting from out of town. All the regulars were gone somewhere to visit their own families, or avoiding the tourists in the streets and shops.

“I thought you said you would leave me alone.” Trott glared at Ross. He gestured with the empty cup in his hand, feeling a surge of annoyance. 

“I am leaving you alone. You ran into me.” Ross gestured at the coffee splash staining his red t-shirt. He was dressed very casually today, in that same black leather biker jacket and a pair of dark jeans. Trott had literally run into him, spilling a cappuccino down his front when he turned away from the counter. The sight of Ross just standing there with an awkward smile made him stumble, and most of his drink slopped right out of the cup. 

“Well, I’m not sorry,” Trott snapped. It upset Trott to allow himself to be so obviously shaken. He was embarrassed and angry, and thought he probably should apologize. But stubbornly, he didn’t. They stood awkwardly by the counter. Trott was glad it was a slow morning, and no one was impatiently waiting in line.

“It’s okay.” Ross just smiled. He grabbed a handful of napkins from the counter, and crouched down to wipe up the spilled coffee. 

“Are you really like this, or this some weird act you put on for your job?” Trott fumed. Something about his painfully easy going attitude infuriated Trott. He was mortified, and wanted to just leave. But he couldn’t without physically stepping over Ross at the moment, and his cup now only held a scant mouthful of coffee and milk. Definitely not enough to power him through his morning once his spike of adrenaline wore off. 

“Let me buy you a drink, and I’ll tell you.” Ross grinned at the expression of consternation on Trott’s face. He turned to the counter, wet napkins balled up in his hand. “Could I get two cappuccinos, to go please?”

The barista looked back and forth between them. She snort laughed as she rang up the order, not even trying to hide her amusement. She probably thought this was some kind of romance. Trott closed his eyes, and wondered if he was going to have to stop coming here. Ross attempted to sponge away some of the coffee with a few napkins but his shirt was damp and most likely stained. 

“Following me to my coffee shop does not count as leaving me alone,” Trott said under his breath. He watched the woman behind the counter steaming milk. He did not even want to look around to see if any of the people in the shop were watching them.

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t following you here.” Ross shrugged when Trott frowned at him. “I followed you here once, and I happen to like it. So sue me.”

Trott looked back at the coffee counter again, studiously ignoring Ross while they waited for their cappuccinos. The barista even winked at him, and Trott wanted to groan. 

“Let’s go sit outside,” Ross suggested. He held the door open, the little bell jingling.

“Fine.” Trott gave him a glare, hoping he looked serious. “I’ll drink this coffee with you, and you’ll leave me the hell alone after this.” Maybe if he just got this done with it, he wouldn’t need to worry about it again. Some men were like that, Trott knew. You had to just reject them thoroughly in a way they would understand and hope they didn’t get violent about it.

There were three round tables in front of the shop, their tiny patio bordered with a wrought iron fence. The flower boxes were empty for the season, but someone had decorated them with golden tinsel garlands. The awning was furled against the building, so there was a little bit of midday sunlight between the grey clouds. 

The metal chair was cold through Trott’s long wool coat. November had turned quite cold, though it had not snowed yet. Cold enough though that he’d put on boots and pants instead of heels and a skirt today. He enjoyed winter more from the inside when it made a nice backdrop. This was not his favorite season. Trott liked summer, short skirts and warm sunshine.

“You’re going to freeze out here in a wet shirt,” Trott sighed, looking at coffee splash on Ross’ shirt.

“I’ll be alright.” Ross zipped up his leather jacket. “I know you don’t usually smoke, but do you want one?” 

“Telling people how much you know about them is an unpleasant habit,” Trott said waspishly, his brief concern for Ross vanishing. He accepted the cigarette though. Marlboros in a red box, and a cheap blue plastic lighter. Ross lit it for him and passed it over. Trott was glad he was still wearing his gloves. His hands wouldn’t smell like smoke at least. Ross’ hands were bare. Trott noticed his nails were bitten down. 

“Terrible,” Ross agreed. He sipped his cappuccino, and licked the foam from his lip. Taking a drag, Trott looked Ross over. He wasn’t bad looking. Quite pale, and with a bit of messy stumble that indicated he shaved very carelessly. There was a nick on his jawline, a tiny spot of dried blood. Trott imagined private detectives as being more discreet and fastidious, more Sherlock Holmes than Philip Marlowe. He wondered if Ross carried a gun. 

“Are you the person calling me and hanging up?” Trott demanded.

“What? No.” Ross shook his head slowly and set down his cup. “We haven’t talked since I went to the Nano to apologize.”

“I didn’t say we were talking. I asked if you were calling me and hanging up.”

“Someone’s just calling and hanging up? Are you sure it isn’t just a wrong number?”

“No, it’s…” Trott hesitated for a moment. “They call and just don’t say anything. The line is just silent. I thought it might be you, checking to see if I was home.”

“If I wanted to know, I’d have something delivered. That’s a better way to find out, usually.”

Something clicked in Trott’s memories, and he inhaled sharply. The smoke stung his throat.

“The flowers were from you, that time.” The flowers without a card. The mystery bouquet that he brought home and put beside the bed.

“Yeah,” Ross admitted. He half smiled. “I thought you might like them, and I could be sure that’s where you worked.”

Trott frowned. He didn’t want to say he liked the flowers. But at least he knew now. He burned his tongue taking a hasty swallow of his coffee.

“When I first spoke to you in the park, you said you didn’t have anything to say to your parents,” Ross said after a few moments of silence. He let the words hang there. Trott stared past him into the street, watching people and cars. He wished he hadn’t agreed to have this conversation.

“You sounded worried that someone would come find you.”

“That’s really none of your business,” Trott said, keeping his voice even and calm. He wanted Ross to back off, but he didn’t want to make it seem like a big deal and make him more interested at the same time.

“My whole business is finding people and things.”

“Well, no one is asking you to find me.” Trott looked down at his cup, at the swirl of foam across the top. The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers. 

“No one is. I did some asking around-” 

Trott inhaled sharply.

“- but as far as I can tell, no one is looking for you.” Ross watched him carefully, tapping his ashes into the plastic ashtray on the center of the small table. “Do you need help?”

“Any help I needed was years ago. As you can see, I am doing quite well on my own.” Trott stopped, trying to swallow the anger that crept into his voice.

Ross nodded. He turned to watch the people on the sidewalk. A woman pushed a double stroller, two shrieking children strapped into the seats. A delivery guy jogged across the sidewalk, carrying a package to one of the apartments over the hair salon. Trott let himself look at Ross’ profile. There was a tiny bit of grey in the hair at his temples, the smallest wrinkles at the corner of eye. He was older than Trott first thought, thirties probably. 

“I felt bad for scaring you, but I also was selfish and just wanted to have a drink with you.” Ross looked back at him, his blue eyes focused on Trott’s face. They were very pale, almost grey. “I just don’t meet many people like you, I guess.”

“People like me? Is that men who wear dresses, or men who like to fuck other men, or just people who value their privacy?” Trott couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.

Ross looked a bit surprised.

“Because I’m really not here for whatever weird fetishistic thing you have going on in your head.” Trott watched the cigarette burn in his hand, smoke curling up into the cold grey daylight.

“I was going to say, I don’t often meet people through my work that I’m interested in without being paid to be interested.”

Trott felt slightly embarrassed by his outburst. It was better here in the City, miles better than where he came from, but sometimes there were still people who made his life difficult. Ross made him feel so on edge, like all the carefully constructed pieces of his life were rattling loose. 

“Are you hitting on me?” Trott asked.

“I know you’re seeing Lovasz, so no, I’m not trying to hit on you. Not that you aren’t very attractive.” Ross paused, and tilted his head. He did not blatantly ogle, which Trott had to admit was refreshing. He just sort of looked, as if he was trying to figure something out. “I just want to know what your story is, Trott.”  

“It’s not that interesting.”

“Well, I disagree there. Lots of people come to the City for their dreams. For instance, you have a lot more in common with Alex Smith than you might think.”

Trott shivered at the name. “I doubt that.”

“You both came from the same place, did you know that?”

“No.” Trott frowned, looking at the last bits of foam in his cup. “I didn’t know that.” He took a drag from the cigarette and crushed it into the ashtray. A lipstick print stained the filter bright pink. He wanted to erase it. Trott wondered how many traces of himself he left everywhere, how easy it would be for someone to find him if they set out to do it.

“Different town, but yeah. Only about 25 miles and some years between you. A few different choices and you might have grown up neighbors.” Ross leaned forward, moving his cup from hand to hand. “He’s a sad story. Though I suppose anyone who runs away to come here doesn’t leave a happy home.”

“No one who is happy runs away from home,” Trott agreed. Trott considered the idea. He’d assumed Smith was from the City. He’d never talked about his past in the couple interviews he gave. It was strange to think about, and Trott found himself thinking of dirt roads and trying to figure out which small town Smith might have grown up in. How odd to think they were so close and didn’t know each other.

“Have you thought that maybe the people paying you to find him are exactly what he’s running from?” Trott asked. 

“It’s not like that.” Ross shook his head. “I know it isn’t. I wish I could tell you more, but I would have to talk to my client about that. It is more complicated than you think.”

“Maybe.” Trott stood up, adjusting the coat and buttoning it up. He loved the way it flared gently from his hips, the way it swung when he walked, the softness of the wool and the silk lining. He’d found it in a resale shop, abandoned after only a season or two and hardly worn. It was the sort of thing that made him feel perfect. Like someone who belonged here, not back in Indiana.

“Do you know where he is?” Ross asked, looking up at Trott. “Or anything that might help me find him?” He sat with his elbows on the table, cigarette burning down to the filter. The question was a simple one without a good answer.

Trott thought of Sips, taking Smith in to help him hide. Supposedly he was in an apartment now, on a wealthy street not all all that far from Sips’ own place. Trott hadn’t been there. Sips mentioned that Smith was working, hardly leaving his loft and that he had no interest in reassuring the public or the tabloids about where he was. Skyblock’s public relations person put out a statement from Smith that he was fine and wanted to be left alone to work. But there were still people who didn’t believe it. Sips joked maybe Smith should buy his own lake house and get out of the city entirely. The idea seemed to amuse him.

“No,” Trott lied. “I don’t know anything about Alex Smith.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked away. He didn’t look back but he was sure that Ross watched him all the way down the block.

 

* * *

 

Kim complained constantly about wanting to lose a few pounds so her clothes fit better. Despite the fancy private gym in her building, she never managed to actually go. Instead she bought a half dozen aerobic workout tapes, everything from Jazzercise to something called Killer Workouts. Trott had agreed to come over and do some of it with her to keep her company. He wore his workout clothes, a pair of very short purple shorts, shiny blue leggings and a white shirt. The sweat bands on his wrists and his forehead were soaked from the 40 minute workout. 

“Why does this have to be so hard,” Kim gasped as the instructor switched at long last to stretching out their hamstrings. She wore hot pink and blue leggings, pink shorts, a black leotard and a headband. Trott thought if she wanted to date a gym rat, she could easily pick someone up just wearing that. It was a cute outfit. 

“At least this is the sitting down part,” Trott puffed. The workout involved entirely too many jumping jacks and squats for his taste. They sprawled on the blue exercise mats laid out on Kim’s floor, doing the cool down stretches. The workout tape promised to make them lean and beautiful like supermodels. Trott was dubious but figured it couldn’t hurt. At least not permanently. His thighs definitely hurt.

“How are things with the boyfriend?” Kim asked when she caught her breath.

“I don’t know what to give him for Christmas,” Trott fretted, sitting with his feet pressed together while he tried to push his knees to the floor. The credits rolled on the television over shots of svelte people stretching and doing lunges in their multi colored workout clothes. They all looked cheerful and none of them were dripping sweat.

“Surely there’s something he wants.”

“He just buys things when he wants them,” Trott said as he twisted back and forth along with the instructor. 

“Yeah, that makes it harder.” Kim rolled over on her stomach with a little groan and put her head on her arms. “What you need is something like an experience, instead of a thing. You know. Think sexy massage instead of cufflinks.”

“Sexy massage?” Trott repeated in a scandalized voice. 

“Hey, it was just an example.” Kim pulled off her headband and threw it at him. “Don’t knock it, he might be into that.”

Trott rolled his eyes. 

“An experience… maybe I could take him somewhere to see a band. He likes music. He’s always singing along in the car, or blasting the radio when he’s in the shower.”

“See, now we’re cooking.” Kim sat up, pushing her hair behind her ears. “What’s his favorite band?”

“Bon Jovi.”

“Bon Jovi, really?” Kim screwed up her face. 

“Really.” 

“Okay.” Kim laughed. “I’m pretty sure they’re on tour. Hottest band of the year or whatever, if you like that kind of music.”

“Even so, I can’t exactly see him wanting to stand around in the arena for that. They’re probably sold out anyways.”

“My parents have a box at the Garden arena.” Kim tapped her fingers on the mat. “Want me to see if they’re coming here? I’m sure it would be easy to get in that way.”

“Could you? Are you sure that would be okay-” Trott stopped stretching, resting his hands on his knees.

“I really doubt my parents are going to decide to use the box to see Bon Jovi.” Kim grinned. 

“Still, I owe you.”

“You can pay me back by coming over to spend the night watching movies with me and eating ice cream instead of doing these stupid aerobics.” Kim sat on her knees and frowned at the television. It was all static now that the tape was over. “I hate exercising.”

Trott scooted over and hugged her, intensely grateful.

“No Ouija board,” he insisted.

“Agreed.” Kim snort laughed at the memory of the time they frightened themselves and spent the entire night awake like nervous teenagers.

“I’ll paint your nails though.”

“Deal.” Kim leaned back on her hands. Some of her black hair stuck to her cheek, sweaty and pink. Her dark brown eyes stayed on Trott. He could tell she was thinking, and trying to keep her expression blank.

“Whatever you’re thinking, spit it out.”

“That obvious?” Kim asked.

“I know that look.” Trott pointed a finger at her. He got up to switch off the tape.

“Are you happy?”

“No, my thighs feel like someone’s pounded them with a hammer after all those squats.”

“I mean with Lovasz. God, I can’t call him Sips, that is such a dumb nickname. Who the hell came up with that?”

Trott paused, trying to find the right words.

“I am happy,” he said, bending forward to grip his ankles. He forced himself to look up at Kim. “It’s… hard sometimes though. I never really know what he’s thinking.”

Kim made a noise of encouragement, waving her hand for him to keep talking.

“Sometimes I think he really likes me, but sometimes he can be kind of… I don’t know. We have really different tastes.”

“Is this he doesn’t like your taste in art or he just hates that you like to put ranch dressing on popcorn? Or is it something more serious?”

Part of Trott wanted to tell the whole story. But another part of him was embarrassed, afraid it only made him look desperate and foolish. He didn’t know if he really should be upset about things.

“It’s that he’s way, way, way kinkier than I think I am.” Trott laughed a little nervously, feeling his cheeks flush.

“Is that so bad? Or is it like, gross kinky stuff? He doesn’t want you to pee on him, does he?” Kim opened her eyes wide. She peeled off the sweat bands and wiped at her arms with a towel.

“God, no! He just, wants to tie me up and stuff like that.”

“Oh well, that’s okay. I mean, as long as he’s not leaving you tied to the bed all day so you pee on yourself.”

“No it’s not that. I don’t know, it just makes me nervous I guess.”

“Have you told him that?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Trott.” Kim rolled her eyes and flopped down. “You have to talk about these things! No one is gonna read your mind, especially in the bed.”

“I know,” he groaned. “I just feel like an idiot. And I’m worried he’ll dump me.”

“If he dumps you ‘cause you don’t want to do kinky shit then you’re better off without him.”

“You’re probably right.” Trott laid down on the mat with a groan. “This workout is as kinky as I want to get.”

“So I shouldn't get the tapes that come with all the rubber bands and stuff?” Kim cracked up, giggle snorting into her hands.

“You are terrible,” Trott declared. “Horrible.” 

“My mother agrees,” Kim said. She grimaced. “She’s talking about us all going to Hong Kong next year, and I know it is not because she wants to visit her sister. She’s on this matchmaking thing.”

“Really? That’s very old fashioned.”

“I heard her talking on the phone about setting up interviews!” Kim laughed but there was an edge to it, an undercurrent of frustration and worry. “Auditions for a son in law, can you believe it? It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh my god. What are you going to do?” 

“Well, I’ll go and just be absolutely terrible. No dutiful son wants to marry a harridan, as my mother likes to say.”

“Or you could just tell your mother you don’t want to get married…” Trott wanted to point out that she’d just told him he had to talk about things with his boyfriend. But he knew how upsetting this particular argument was between Kim and her mother. It had only gotten worse over the years as Kim refused all her mother’s entreaties to settle down and have children.

“You know that will only make my mother more determined.”

“Show up with a new girlfriend, then.”

“Please.” Kim sighed. “If there’s anything my mother is more blind to than my desire not to be married, it is the idea that I could possibly be seriously dating a woman. The woman lives in a bubble that does not admit inconvenient facts.”

Trott stretched out a hand across the floor towards her.

“You can tell her we’re getting married,” he said.

Kim rolled her head to the side.

“Well, you’re definitely better husband material than just about anyone else I know.” She looked Trott up and down before sighing. “Except for one thing... “

“What’s that?” Trott asked, trying not to smile. 

“Sorry, Trott, I can’t marry someone who is going to look better in my clothes than I do. It would never work.”

They cracked up laughing. Trott’s eyes watered, and he wiped at his face. 

“Oh god laughing makes my stomach hurt, why did we do this, Trott?” Kim gasped. Trott tried not to laugh, one hand over his mouth and the other resting on his stomach. It took forever for them to stop giggling and get off the floor. 

 

* * *

 

The Ocin show continued to draw in visitors, filling the guest book and taking all the fliers. They were holding the show into December. and Ocin had even sent a few more pictures to the gallery to hang that hadn’t been finished by the opening. They were mostly slices of the City skyline, curling neon clouds or gilded skyscrapers. Trott had a list of people to call. They would have a quiet, invitation only showing for those people who were interested one night before re-arranging the gallery slightly. Moving things around was a hassle, but a good problem to have. It was on his to-do list for the afternoon.

It was busy out in the gallery with so many visitors. Nina was working on her end of term pieces, so her friend Anya was picking up some shifts at the Nano. Anya was cheerful, tiny, with colorfully streaked hair and the face of a princess. Trott could easily imagine her in a big colorful dress with a crown and a talking animal companion straight out of a fairy tale. She had that rosebud mouth, blue eyes and tiny nose like a fancy doll. Trott might have hated her for being so effortlessly pretty, but she was very diligent, careful and kind. He half hoped the uptick in business meant they might be able to hire her too. It would be nice to have a couple employees, pass some of the mundane tasks around. It might also be nice to have a break from closing the gallery in the evenings some nights.

Trott also needed to arrange a time for the photographer to come back. Kim had an interview later in the week with the same fashion magazine that profiled Ocin for their December issue. They were doing a story about the rise of women in the art world, and the Nano was a perfect starting place. Trott was thrilled for Kim. He knew how hard she worked, the way she felt she had to prove to her parents that this business was worthwhile.

They shared one large desk, sitting on either side of it to handle all the administrative tasks of running the gallery. This way they only had one filing system and things didn’t get lost moving from place to place. It was also practical because the windowless office was not very large. There was another room in the back, set up more like a small lounge with some comfortable, fashionable chairs. It mostly served as a breakroom but sometimes Kim or Trott used it for meetings with artists just because it was more pleasant than the tiny, utilitarian office. 

“What is this?” Kim muttered, hefting an envelope. Trott squinted, trying to read the return address from his side of the desk.

“What?” Scattered in front of him were all the invoices from the past month. Usually Nina picked up the mail but in the confusion and hurry this week, it hadn’t gotten done and no one had given Anya the key. So now they were sorting through several days of mail Trott had piled on the desk.

“Why am I getting mail from Skyblock?” Kim asked.

“What?” Trott repeated, surprise making his voice go higher.

Kim ripped open the envelope, and tipped out a card. It was heavy, thick paper. Cream colored, and printed with scarlet ink that had a metallic shimmer.

“It’s a Christmas party invitation,” Kim said slowly. “You are cordially invited to the Skyblock Gallery holiday party, Saturday December 13th, black tie, please rsvp blah blah blah.” She looked over at Trott, eyebrows raised. “Did you do this?”

“No.” Trott shook his head. “I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t even know there was a party.”

“Hmm.” Kim fanned herself with the card. 

“You don’t have to go just because-” Trott started to say, looking down at the papers in front of him.

“Oh I know.” Kim grinned. “But maybe I just want to drink all your boyfriend’s wine. Maybe I’ll get to meet Marjorie Astor Cohen. Oh my god, Trott! Do you think he’d invite her? I will go if there’s any chance.”

Trott couldn’t help but smile at Kim’s rising excitement. “Maybe? Probably? I think so?”

“You and I are going shopping,” Kim said firmly. “I don’t give a shit if he wants to buy you another LaCroix, we’re going to go find something to wear for this together.”

“It’s a date.” Trott went back to working on the stack of papers to be filed, already wondering what he should wear.

“Besides, I think we all deserve a good Christmas bonus.”

“Oh really?” Trott knew the Ocin show was a smash, and the gallery had done well over the year. Kim could run the gallery at a loss, but she took a lot of pride in making it a real business.

“Plus,” Kim said, drawing out the word. “I spoke to Mary yesterday, and she’s committed to doing another show with us next year.”

“Oh that’s good news.” Trott rested his chin on one hand, thinking about the numbers and ordering the good wine for openings.

“I told her whatever she wanted to do, she could have a spot.” Kim fanned herself with the Skyblock party invitation. “I think she’s going to be big.”

“Our first major star,” Trott agreed. “I can see it. People like mixed media. Makes them think they’re getting more for their money.”

“We’re going to triple her prices next time, have our own Alex Smith. Speaking of Smith, has Sips said anything about him lately?”

“No.” Trott shook his head, sitting back up in his chair. The subject of Smith made him uneasy.

“I’m surprised. I would think he’d be unable to stop bragging.”

“Bragging about what?”

“You haven’t heard?” Kim asked, eyebrows raised. Trott lifted a hand, waving at her to continue. “That big new art museum in Chicago bought two of his pictures. Supposedly three million.”

“Three million dollars?” Trott couldn’t contain his surprise. That was big news. Why hadn’t Sips mentioned it? “Where did you hear that?”

“My friend Darcy is working over at the Modern, designing exhibits. We had dinner last night and she was sharing all the museum gossip.”

“Wow. When did this happen?”

“Supposedly the deal was all worked out over Thanksgiving,” Kim said as she scribbled her signature on the rsvp card. “I thought you said Sips was at his mother’s place for Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.” Trott half laughed. “Maybe he spent half his time on the phone making a deal. That sounds like something he’d do.” Still, he couldn’t help but wonder. Had he gone somewhere else? Had he been with Smith? The thoughts made his stomach clench. Trott put a bright smile on his face.

“Well, I bet that means we’re going to Ciro’s for dinner!” 

“Better get out your fuck me heels and that glitter dress,” Kim said. She stuffed the rsvp in an envelope, and handed it to Trott. 

 

* * *

 

Instead of the sequined dress, Trott wore a pale grey dress to dinner. The silk dupioni was overlaid with black lace with a subtle pattern of leaves and flowers. The delicate design was shot through with metallic threads that gave the embroidery a shimmer. It had a plunging v-neck, elbow length sleeves and an asymmetrical skirt angled from over his knee to mid calf. With a pair of shiny black pumps, it made Trott wish he owned a fur coat or a velvet cape to go with it. He turned in front of his mirror, watching the hem flare slightly from his legs. It was elegant, beautiful without being too flashy or too old fashioned. Hopefully Sips would like it. 

Trott opened the jewelry box on top of his dresser. The top drawer was all his everyday jewelry, a jumble of various things. The lower drawer held the nicer things. A pair of tiny diamond studs he bought himself with money from his first job in the City. The slender tennis bracelet he bought when he was 25, with diamonds between the gold links. A pale peach colored pearl bracelet from a consignment store. An antique pair of gold earrings, art deco fan shapes that reminded Trott of a rising sun. A old gold chain, solid and heavy. Gently, he rifled through the drawer. It always gave him a bit of pleasure to touch and hold these things.

Trott carefully fastened the diamond tennis bracelet around his right wrist. Then he picked up a pair of vivid green earrings. They weren’t emeralds, some kind of dark green gem that just looked much more expensive than they really were. He’d picked them up at an estate sale, the last bits of someone’s costume jewelry collection. Small gold bows were set with a tiny, probably fake diamond. The oval green stones hung down like fat grapes. Trott flicked one, watching it swing back and forth. 

The night was frigid, so he pulled on a pair of gloves before slipping on his coat. He almost wished he could toss on his leg warmers over his hose. They were too bulky to fit in his evening bag however, and Sips would not be amused. Trott sighed, and hoped someone would invent fashionable evening wear leggings for next year. 

 

* * *

 

Instead of Ciro’s they went to a new Italian place Sips wanted to try. Silvano was surprisingly luxurious inside compared to the rustic exterior of yellow painted bricks and black awnings. Black clad waiters drifted around the room refilling glasses and carrying heavy white plates. Around the restaurant were several large paintings of Tuscan countryside in baroque gold frames. The sounds of the other diners were muffled in the brocade drapes on the walls and the splash of the tiny stone fountain set in the middle of the dining room. A small candle burned at their table, adding to the golden glow. Despite the crowd, their table felt like an intimate space.

Trott never opened his menu. Sips liked to order for both of them. It was easier if Trott didn’t look at the menu and get any idea about eating something different than what he received. But lately Sips asked him which dessert he’d like, a compromise in his habits that Trott appreciated.

Sips forked up a bite of his osso buco. The broth soaked into the polenta on his plate. His wine glass was full of a heavy red. Across the table, Trott twirled his fork into the angel hair pasta of his shrimp scampi. The citrusy white wine cut through the rich butter and garlic sauce. It was a good meal, Trott thought. He found himself wondering what else was on the menu, if they had those soft, pillowy little pastas he enjoyed. Long pasta that had to be twined and twirled onto a fork was not his favorite. He had to eat so carefully so as not to fling tiny drops of butter on his dress.

“Thank you for inviting Kim to the Christmas party,” Trott said, chasing a shrimp across his plate with a bit of breadstick.

Sips shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea, business wise.” He wore a dark pinstripe suit tonight, the blue turning black in the dim light. Underneath his jacket was a garishly orange dress shirt with a white collar. 

“Still, I appreciate it. She’s my best friend.” Trott took a breath, picking up his wine glass. “I think we might go shopping together to find something to wear for the party.” 

Sips chewed for a moment, then wiped his mouth with the heavy cloth napkin. Trott drank, hiding his face in his glass.

“I thought I could buy you a dress.”

“That’s so generous of you,” Trott said. “I don’t want to put you out for all my party dresses though.” He half held his breath, unsure if Sips would be upset.

“Whatever you want to do, Trott.” Sips shrugged and took a drink of his wine. “Just make sure you get something classy. A lot of important people there. I want you to look good beside me.”

“Of course,” Trott agreed, trying not to show his elation. 

“Nothing too short, I want this to be a classy thing.”

“I was thinking something sleek and long,” Trott said. He watched Sips eat, unhurried and seemingly unconcerned. The diamond stud in his ear gleamed in the candle light. 

“I should congratulate you on the good news,” Trott finally said. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to bring up Smith. 

“Why?” Sips asked around a mouthful of food.

“About the museum in Chicago buying some of Smith’s work, that’s a big thing.”

“Oh yeah, that.” Sips’ mouth curved up in a half smile. “Yeah.”

“Did you have to do a lot of negotiating?” Trott didn’t know why he was asking inane questions, trying to keep this conversation going. His curiosity perhaps, the inescapable specter of Alex Smith that seemed to loom over his life.

“Well, you know.” Sips gestured with his fork. Sauce dripped on the table cloth, unnoticed by Sips. Trott couldn’t help but watch as the tiny dots spread in the tablecloth. 

“Will you and Smith go to Chicago?” he asked, pulling his eyes away from the stains.

“Eh.” Sips frowned again. “Smith hates public appearances.”

“Maybe he could just see it privately.” Trott ate another bite of his food. It was good. He wished there was more on the plate. “That’s a lot of money. I wouldn’t even know what to do if I suddenly had that kind of money.”

Sips looked across the table and smirked at him.

“That’s why artists need financial management,” Sips said. “They don’t know shit about money. I look after Smith’s account so he doesn’t do anything stupid with it. He’s protected that way.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” Trott said.

“He sure is,” Sips agreed. “No one else would do what I do for him.” 

“Are things calming down with him? With the people trying to find him?”

Sips’ immediate frown made Trott regret speaking. He had the sense he’d pushed too far, asking so many questions about Smith.

“There’s some private dick making my life miserable,” Sips complained. “I’ve had to hire extra security for the gallery and Angor physically threw the guy out the door the other day. These people...”

Trott blinked, imagining Ross and Angor tussling in the sleek Skyblock gallery. Had he gone there after that day in the cafe? Trott forced himself to pay attention to what Sips was saying.

“...keep telling those assholes to leave everyone alone but no one listens.” Sips finished his glass of wine. A waiter materialized to refill it from the almost empty bottle in the stand beside the table. In the bucket beside it was the bottle of white wine that Trott was only halfway through. He pushed his glass towards the edge of the table. The waiter silently topped it up. It was cold in Trott’s mouth. He probably shouldn’t drink more or he might talk too much and let slip that he knew who Ross was.

“No one’s come to see you about it, have they?” Sips asked. His eyes focused unnervingly on Trott.

“No,” Trott said automatically. 

“No, there were a couple reporters but that was back in October and I haven’t seen anyone lately.” Trott hoped his voice sounded steady, unruffled. “I don’t know why anyone would ask me anything, I’ve never even met Smith.”

“If anyone does ask, you tell me immediately.” Sips leaned forward, one elbow on the expensive tablecloth spotted with bits of sauce. “Don’t tell them anything. Not even ‘I don’t know.’ Not a word. You got that?”

“Of course,” Trott nodded. He twisted his hand in the napkin in his lap. He hoped that Ross never got near enough Sips to say anything about his conversations with Trott. Sips would be furious. Trott was surprised at how instinctively he lied. He didn’t want to think about what Sips might say or do if he found out about that.

“Good.” Sips sat back in his chair. He gestured for the waiter to take his plate, and as the staff cleared the table he lit a cigarette. A heavy glass ashtray appeared beside his wine. Another waiter brought out the tiny dessert menus.

“What do you want for dessert, princess?”

“I think I’d like the tiramisu.” Trott handed the menu back, feeling relieved. 

 

* * *

 

Trott helped Kim zip herself into a dress in a changing room. Kim braced her hands on the wall.

“Suck it in,” Trott muttered, tugging the zipper up. “This is going to be tight.”

“No.” Kim scrunched up her face. “This is not good.” She batted at the giant, puffed shoulders.

“You do like a bit like a balloon.”

“A purple balloon,” Kim said in a grim voice. “No, thank you. Your turn.”

They had a whole rack of dresses they’d hauled into the dressing room in the basement thrift shop. This was one of their favorite places. The wealthy women in the neighborhood often dumped their older clothes in this shop and a couple consignment stores with discrete awnings and shaded windows. It was a good spot to score designer clothes for a fraction of their cost.

“Oh Trott, that’s beautiful.” Kim made him twirl in the white dress. The white satin brocade dipped down his sides to the small of his back. Strands of fake pearls hung across his shoulders and down his back, criss crossing each other to drape under his arms. They gathered at a brooch in the center of the straight neckline.

“I really like it.”

“It’s very sexy,” Trott agreed. He sighed. “Sips will probably hate it.”

“Why??”

“Because it is not real pearls or something like that.”

“Of course he’s a snob,” Kim said as she helped Trott out of the dress. 

“I don’t know that I want to wear white anyways,” Trott said. “Your turn.” He thrust a hanger at Kim.

Kim pulled on a tuxedo jacket and pants. It lacked a shirt, so she stood there in her bra. She turned sideways, one hand resting on her hip. Trott combed her hair back from her face, imagining it slicked back.

“I think I like this,” Kim said. “I could wear a tuxedo.”

“You do look good.” Trott pinched the back of the jacket to pull in the loose fabric. “It just needs a little bit of work to fit right in the shoulders. Maybe hem the pants, too if you wear flats. Are you going to skip the shirt too?”

“No,” Kim laughed. “I’ll find a shirt.”

In the end they turned up a men’s dress red shirt with a high collar. Trott tied the bow tie for her, a plain black one from the rack of ties near the register.

“What if I just left it undone, hanging here?” She pulled the collar button open.

“It’s sexy.” 

“That’s what I want.” Kim looked at herself with satisfaction. “I’m getting this.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to wear,” Trott groaned.

They combed through the racks of clothes. Trott considered an asymmetrical party dress, green and black, with a puffy tulle underskirt. He frowned at the silver, bell sleeved dress and wrote it off as too short and out of fashion. There was a long, shiny gown but it was way too small. 

“Come on, there’s some other places we can look.” Kim patted his back. “Fashion is work.”

 

* * *

 

They went to a consignment shop, the sort of place that made you feel like you were stepping into one of the high end boutiques. You had to know someone who knew someone to get in the door. Kim often put her clothes up here when she got tired of them, or knew she’d never wear them again. She didn’t care about getting the credit for them so much as she just wanted to empty out some closet space. Her sense of personal style was always evolving. 

Mona, a slender black woman with sleekly coiffed hair, listened to Kim’s requests. She was dressed a bit like a 60’s airline hostess in a pale blue dress with short sleeves and a slender patent leather belt. She gave Trott a once over, not needing the measuring tape clipped to her belt to determine his size. Then she vanished into the racks of clothes while Kim and Trott settled down on the plush chairs by a dressing room. 

“It’s so quiet in here,” Trott whispered. 

“I came here once and there was some kind of bachelorette party going on,” Kim whispered back. “That made it much weirder.” She smiled at the woman who brought a tray with two diet cokes in actual glasses full of ice. Trott raised his eyebrows slightly as Kim ate the maraschino cherries out of her drink.

“They know me,” she said with a little shrug.

“You can never judge me about my closet again,” Trott said. “You have an addiction.”

“I just enjoy change,” Kim replied in a lofty voice.

Before Kim finished her cherries, Mona returned with an armful of dresses.

“A few of these might be too long,” Mona said in a brisk voice as she herded Trott into the dressing room and filled the rack with gowns. “But this is just a starting point. There’s a couple you will need some help with the zippers.”

Trott was glad he’d shaved and worn nice underwear today. He was used to Kim helping him with his clothes from time to time, but he almost never went anywhere that an attendant stepped into the room.

“Are you sure, I could ask Kim…” Trott trailed off as he shrugged out of his sweater to reveal his bare chest.

“You certainly are not the first man I’ve had to help into a dress,” Mona said. “At least you don’t have football player shoulders. That makes it so much harder. You’ve got a bit more of a model figure so I think it should be easy to find something that fits you.”

Relieved, Trott laughed.

“I’m too short to be a runway model.” He’d considered modelling work, to make some cash when he first came here. But the couple places he approached were hesitant to pick him up because he was uninterested in menswear and clearly not a woman. 

Mona helped him into a couple dresses, assessing the fits. From her belt pouch she produced pins and clips to adjust things as they stood in front of the mirror.

Trott tried on a shimmering gold dress with mutton sleeves. The fabric felt so thin he half expected to see right through it. It was a bit like being dressed in plastic wrap.

“You look like you’re going on Dynasty,” Kim commented when he stepped out to look at himself in the triple mirror.

“Rude,” Trott said. “Accurate, but rude.”

Next came a pale pink dress with a sweetheart neckline, and a red one cut diagonally up the legs. Trott frowned at the green shiny dress, the satin skirt making him feel like he was on his way to a club. The cascading ruffles of a blue dress made them both giggle as he spun in front of the mirror. Even Mona cracked a smile. She kept replacing dresses as he tried them on, quietly judging the fit and pinning things in place.

“I know this a brand new Dior, but it looks like curtains,” Trott sighed. He twitched the long patterned dress, imagining himself blending into the wall of a new Italian restaurant. It hung shapelessly off his shoulders.

“It’s heavy,” Mona agreed. “Let me pull a couple things that might be more fitted and sexy.”

“Thank you.” Trott pulled on the plain linen robe hanging in the dressing room and plopped himself into the chair beside Kim.

“Don’t look so sad,” Kim said. “We’ll find you something pretty.”

“I’m just so worried.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want Sips to hate it.”

“He can’t hate it if you look amazing and chic.”

Trott leaned his head on his arm. He wanted to say something to Kim but he had no idea what he could. He pulled in his left arm and tucked it into his lap, self conscious about the dermablend covering the mark on his wrist under his bracelets. 

“After this we should get something to eat.” Trott eyed Kim’s glass. “Unless you’re stuffed.”

Kim held a cherry between her teeth and grinned.

Mona reappeared with a garment bag in her arms.

“This is all hand beaded Bob Mackie,” Mona said. “It is a bit fiddly but you’d be able to put it on without help.” She lifted the dress so Trott could duck into it. The weight of the beads reminded him a bit of the LaCroix ball gown. But this was sleek, hugging the lines of his body. He slipped his arms into the long, clinging sleeves. Mona fastened the high neck for him and Trott turned carefully in the mirror.

The black beaded gown clung to him, reflecting the lights in the dressing room. Gold and silver glass beads formed a falling star from his right shoulder and across his chest. The neck fastened in a high collar, and ran just along the top of his shoulders. It was open to reveal his shoulders, hugging his sides from under his arms and dipping to the small of his back.. 

Mona smiled, and held open the door of the dressing room for Trott.

“Oh wow,” Kim breathed. “Holy shit, Trott. That looks amazing.”

“You think so?’ He stepped carefully onto the platform in front of the mirror to see himself in triplicate. His skin was so pale against the black, the open back so breathtaking compared to the front. It could never be called demure, despite how covered up he was. The dress clung to him, outlining his narrow waist and long legs. 

“I know so.” Kim set down her glass and hopped up to look closer. “Oh, this is gorgeous. Trott. It’s perfect.”

“I think this has to be the one,” Trott said quietly.

“You’ll be incredible. He’d be crazy to look at anyone else while you’re wearing that.”

“It really fits like it was made for you,” Mona said as she arranged the hem. “You’ll want to make sure you’ve got an extra inch on your heels but it doesn’t look like it needs any alterations.”

“It was meant to be.” Kim grinned up at Trott.

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed. “I’ll take it.”

 

* * *

 

Trott pulled several dresses off their hangers and rolled them up into a shopping bag. They were all summer dresses he wouldn’t want to wear for ages. His closet probably needed a good clean out. No doubt there were things in there he probably would never wear again. But he didn’t want to do it right now. He’d save that for a snow day when he was stuck inside sometime in January. Maybe he’d finally get around to buying a shoe rack.

The garment bag took up plenty of space in the small closet. The dress was well protected but Trott didn’t want to risk damaging the beading. He shoved a few things more to the right, kicked a few pairs of shoes out of the way on the floor. It was one of the most expensive clothing purchases he’d ever made. It was an absolutely ridiculous expense. He shouldn’t have bought it. It was probably dumb to buy a dress like this when Sips would have bought one for him. But he wanted to pick the dress this time. He wasn’t sure Sips would have picked this for him. Hopefully he would like it. 

The phone rang and Trott looked at it with narrowed eyes. Every time it rang now he suspected his mystery caller. He believed Ross told him the truth, that it wasn’t him calling. But who would it be then? Trott leaned over and grabbed the phone.

“Hello?”

The silence on the line frustrated Trott.

“Who the fuck is this?” he snapped, his voice rising. “I’m sick of this game. Say whatever it is you want to say!”

The silence crackled, and Trott held his breath. He wanted to hear something, anything. There was a sound, almost too faint to hear. Trott closed his eyes, concentrating on trying to figure out what the noise was. Was it someone laughing? The harder he strained, the less it seemed real. 

There was a click, and the line went dead. Trott held the phone until it began beeping at him. 

He sank down onto the floor and put his back against the side of the bed, knees pulled to his chest. For the first time, he felt terrified by the calls. There was no explanation. None of it made sense. There was something so creepy about the silences, the feeling Trott had that someone was just listening to him.

There were never messages on his machine. It only seemed to happen when he was home at night. That made it worse in Trott’s mind. It couldn’t just be a simple mistake. If it were a fax machine, he’d hear the shrill noise of the machine trying to send the fax. If it was just some robocall then it would have called during the day. 

Trott turned out the lights and locked himself in the bathroom. He didn’t want to be near his windows, even with the curtains shut. He grabbed a magazine and read in the bathtub until the water got cold. Shivering, he wrapped himself up and went to bed. Before he laid down, Trott unplugged his phone. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are comments by various characters in this chapter about sex workers that do no reflect the author's opinions on sex work. The author supports sex workers and their rights to bodily autonomy and the freedom to work safely without coercion or abuse.

Skyblock’s Christmas party was set to be the party of the season. Sips complained for weeks about reporters calling but Trott could tell he was pleased by the attention the gallery was getting from it. Breathless items in the gossip columns and tabloids speculated about the guests, Skyblock and Smith. Sips only answered enigmatically whenever someone asked him questions, or referred them to talk to the publicist.

Trott did not ask questions except for ones he knew Sips wanted to hear. There was no doubt Smith would skip this party. Trott only hoped that it wouldn’t spark a fresh wave of tabloid headlines. He looked at them in the corner store when he bought groceries, or at the newsstands on the street. The headlines about Nicaragua or the West Bank couldn’t compare to the tabloids.

A horde of photographers crowded the entrance to the Park Hotel, the lights from the camera flashes brighter than the holiday decorations on the street lights. A couple news vans were parked down the block, their antennas poking up in the night. Even MTV had sent someone over to shoot some video of the scene. They were making the most of the street, as the hotel forbid any of the press from coming inside.

Trott watched the madness with bemusement from the suite high up in the building. Apparently renting out the hotel ballroom came with a complimentary suite for the night. He had arrived earlier in the day, long before the reporters and cameras, looking like any other traveler with a small suitcase and a garment bag. Trott had to admit that it was nice getting ready here and just taking the elevator down. He wished Kim was with him. It would be more fun to get ready with a friend. Sips was off consulting with Angor about some last minute thing, caught up in the party preparations.

The hotel bathroom was enormous and luxurious, with a walk in shower and a big soaking tub. Trott took a shower just because it was there, and because it was so chilly outside. It felt good to be warm, his skin pink from the heat. Drying off in the enormous fluffy towel, he laid out his clothes and started getting dressed.

Trott settled down at the vanity table, wearing only his gold silk panties and an expensive black garter belt. He hoped Sips would appreciate that detail later. It was more fuss, to carefully roll up the thigh high stockings and clip them to the black lace belt. But it was the kind of thing Sips would like, needlessly expensive and beautiful. He put his feet in the sleek gold leather stilettos.

Carefully, he did his makeup in the mirror. The soft foundation smoothing out his skin, the blush brightening his cheeks. Eyeliner in a teal, with just a hint of a curl at the corners of his eyes. The full eyeshadow treatment, all the way up to his brows. The sheer gold blended into the cool marine and cobalt blues to bring out his brown eyes. He fluffed his lashes with some mascara. It was his least favorite thing to do because of how hard it was to find mascara that didn’t run or make a mess.

Finally, he selected his lipstick from the couple in the bag. The rich red was called Envious. It glided over his lips, leaving a satiny, almost sparkling crimson. Trott pressed his lips together, admiring the brightness of the color.

He checked his watch, wondering where Sips was. Fashionably late was fine. But Trott wanted to see the other people there. He wanted to see their clothes, compare himself to them.

Trott carefully took off all his usual bracelets. Tonight he would just wear the single golden chain. He hadn’t made up his mind what to do about earrings. In his bag he had the tiny diamond studs and a few other pairs. Running the brush through his hair, Trott admired himself in the mirror. His salon appointment had cleaned up his eyebrows to perfect arches, and waxed the few wispy hairs off his upper lip. He’d bleached his hair to a stunning platinum blonde. Working a little mouse into his hair, Trott combed it back from his forehead until it was sleek and ever so slightly lifted.

The door opened, and slammed.

“Are you dressed?” Sips called out from the sitting area of the suite.

“Almost!” Trott stood up, and unzipped the garment bag. Carefully, he stepped into his dress and pulled up so the waist sat comfortably before slipping his arms into the sleeves. He fastened the high collar, watching himself in the mirror. He felt a tremor of excitement. He hadn’t shown Sips the dress, wanting it to be a surprise.

Sips leaned in the doorway, staring at him. He wore a dark red tuxedo, with a crisp white shirt and a black velvet bow tie.

“What do you think?” Trott asked, turning slowly to face him. His stomach fluttered with nerves. It was risky, surprising Sips at the last minute. But Trott thought this would be the right dress.  

Silently, Sips came forward. In his heels, Trott was almost on eye level with him. He held his breath as Sips looked at him from head to toe.

“You look stunning,” Sips said finally. He reached out to run his hand over the beading of the dress, tracing the silver and gold comet across his chest.

Trott let out his breath, elated and relieved.

“You just need one thing.” Sips pulled a box out of his pocket. “Good thing I brought it.”

Trott gasped at the earrings. Round diamonds, easily three times bigger than the tiny studs Trott owned. A gold mesh diamond dangled from each post, the tiny links so delicate that Trott was almost afraid to pick one up. Sips watched him fasten the earrings in his ears. They were surprisingly light, the mesh shapes dangling just past his jaw.

“There. Now you are perfect.” Sips kissed the back of his neck.

Angor appeared in the doorway, a glass of something in his hand. He wore a tuxedo jacket over a pair of black jeans. His dress shirt was unbuttoned, showing off the enormous silver longhorn skull pendant dangling round his neck. He raised his glass to toast Trott, smiling his sardonic smile. Trott smiled back automatically. He didn’t really like Angor that much. There was something about his expression that made him seem as if he was always trying to conceal how absurd he found everything around him.

“Alright, let’s go.” Sips clapped his hands, and hustled them out to the elevator.

 

* * *

 

The roar of conversation, shouts and greetings enveloped them when the elevator opened onto the mezzanine guarded by uniformed security staff. Guest climbed the wide curving stairs to present their invitations. The dark blue carpet was thronged with people in elegant evening clothes. From the railing, Trott could see the staccato flashes from outside the glass doors. The hotel had firmly thrown out more than one over eager member of the press. A few uniformed off duty police officers joined the hotel’s security men in blocking the lobby.

Just outside the ballroom, a meeting room was the domain of the only official photographer for the Skyblock party. Someone had hung pale drapes to provide a background, and a few chairs occupied the space. Lights, umbrellas and assistants turned the room into a makeshift studio. The guests took turns posing, sometimes in pairs or small groups. The photographer moved back and forth, swiftly snapping pictures. It all ran under the watchful eye of a blond woman in an icy blue skirt suit.

Angor slipped away, still carrying his glass, to check in on the photography. Trott vaguely remembered Sips mentioning something about Vogue. There was quite a crowd lingering on the mezzanine, wanting to get their chance to have their picture taken for the magazine.

Sips pulled Trott ahead of the line, welcomed into the room by the magazine staff. Trott could not focus on what they were saying. His mind was turning only one thought over and over - that his picture would be in the magazine. The same magazine that sat in the stack at the beauty parlor where his mom went to talk with her friends.

“Turn here, sweetheart.” The photographer snapped his fingers. “We want to get the back of that dress.”

“Trott.” Sips looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Sorry,” Trott said. He practiced his automatic smile. “Blinded by all the lights.”

Someone laughed, and Trott arranged himself carefully beside Sips. The camera clicked rapidly. Someone adjusted a light. Trott turned his head, feeling the earrings swing against his jaw. The air in the room was warm. He focused on Sips, grinning at something Trott hadn’t heard.

“There we go, you’re free now,” said the blond in the blue suit. “Until Anthony starts roaming the ballroom for candids. We'll probably want some of you with the guests.”

“Thank you, Grace.” Sips shook her hand.

Trott glanced over his shoulder as they left the room. A trio of fashion models in shiny dresses clustered together, hugging. The photographer tilted his head. Someone adjusted the light again. Just beyond the door, a long line of people waited for their chance to be photographed.

But it was the ballroom that everyone wanted to see. The high ceilinged room had enormous chandeliers, dripping with glass icicles. Projectors made the room’s famous white and gold walls into giant screens for slides of Smith’s paintings. The room glowed with the vibrant colors, streaks of red, green and blue cut through with bright yellow or faded orange. The effect of those violent slashes of color made larger than life was incredible. People stared, sometimes turning in circles to take it all in.

Smith of course was nowhere to be seen. But even without him, the party had star power to spare with artists, musicians, socialites, Hollywood royalty, even a Swedish princess. Trott watched her greet someone, wearing a shiny blue ball gown like something out of a movie. Somehow this party was even more surreal than the Halloween Ball. No one wore an obvious mask. It was all under the skin.

“Marjorie, good to see you.” Sips leaned forward to kiss Marjorie Astor Cohen on the cheek. She wore an elegant blue dress of shining taffeta and silk brocade, and her silver hair was coiffed in an impeccable wave. A thick necklace of diamonds and rubies gleamed at her throat, the big oval stones surrounded by diamond covered gold squares. The matching earrings looked heavy, the rubies as big as cherries dangling from her ears. The old fashioned settings gave her a regal appearance, as if she had just set aside her crown for the evening.

“I love a good party, and you do always throw a good party.” Marjorie waved a hand at the hulking man in a tuxedo just behind her. “Come here, Hans, I’d like you meet our host Mr. Lovasz. Sips, this is Hans.”

Hans was an enormous man. His shoulders were practically twice as wide as Trott's. Even hidden in a well tailored tuxedo, it was obvious that Hans was built like a super soldier or a professional athlete. He had a tan despite the season, and close cropped dark hair.

“Nice to meet you.” Sips shook hands with Hans, eyeing his grip. Hans’ hands were very large, and he wore an expensive Swiss watch covered in dials.

“Hello, I’m Trott.” He thrust his hand forward.

Hans looked Trott over with his bright brown eyes but there was nothing lascivious about it. Trott got the impression he was being evaluated for something. With great courtesy, Hans accepted Trott’s hand and bent forward in an old fashioned courteous gesture. It surprised and amused Trott.

“Every time I see you, Marjorie, you’ve got a new boyfriend,” Sips said, watching the exchange.

She laughed brightly. “My insurer told me that Derrick was taking a full time position with Berdorf’s and I had to find someone new to accompany my jewels everywhere.” She patted Hans’ arm with an affectionate smile. “Lucky for me, Hans is very good looking and very cultured. He went to Oxford!”

Hans smiled, clearly used to Marjorie’s flirtations already. Trott wondered if that was half his job, flirting with people he was hired to protect.Did he have a gun hidden under his jacket, or a knife? He looked so solid and imposing. Perhaps he didn't even need a weapon.

“The luck is entirely mine to escort such an elegant lady.” Hans had a faint accent, something Continental that was not quite German, not quite French. His broad shoulders and thick neck gave him a bullish look at odds with his elegant tuxedo.

“And he’s charming.” Marjorie gave Sips a once over. “I must say, you’re looking like a very svelte Santa Claus.” She gestured at Sips’ red tuxedo.

“Aww Marjorie, I’m the anti-Santa tonight. I only bring presents for the bad boys and girls.”

They both laughed. Marjorie turned to Trott.

“I see you’ve brought the North Star as your date tonight. You look absolutely lovely, dear.” Marjorie kissed the air beside Trott’s cheek.

“You’re too kind,” Trott said. “Thank you.”

“It’s a stunning dress. Turn around for me.”

Trott twirled on command, feeling only a little ridiculous. He was glad of the attention.

“Oh look at that open back,” Marjorie sighed. “That’s very daring, you can only wear that when you don’t need a bra. I absolutely love it. Dress like that as much as you can, Trott, before you get old and have to cover up in jewels to catch attention.”

“I’ve seen you in the Hamptons, you don’t cover up much there,” Sips interjected.

Marjorie laughed and lightly whacked Sips on the arm. “You be nice to this one, you’ll never find anyone half so beautiful in this town who will put up with you.”

“Oh, I appreciate Trott very much.” Sips put an arm around him, his hand resting possessively on Trott’s hip.

“I see your painter has decided to skip another party.” Marjorie sighed, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Sips shrugged. “What can you do? Some people just don’t appreciate things the way you and I do.”

“Such a shame,” Marjorie agreed. “Well, I must go catch up with Princess Caroline, I haven’t seen her in months and months.” She swept off into the crowd, Hans towering over her.

In a corner, a DJ hunched over a table playing “West End Girls.” The checkered dance floor in front of him was empty except for a guy awkwardly swaying in his tuxedo. Around the room were a couple bars, and there was a small buffet to one side full of Christmas cookies and an elaborate gingerbread house version of the Skyblock gallery. Someone had glazed cookies with streaks of colored royal icing like Smith’s paintings. It was ridiculous and beautiful at the same time.

“Alright, princess.” Sips squeezed Trott’s hip. “Go mingle, look pretty. I’m going to be boring and talk some business with a few people for a little bit.”

Trott watched Sips disappear into the crowd. He picked up a gingerbread cookie, nibbling at it as he looked around the room. Kim wasn’t here yet. There were plenty of people he recognized. Mostly from the pages of magazines and not because he actually knew them. For a long moment, Trott felt that same sort of dizzying anxiety that overwhelmed him the first few times he went out to the clubs in the City. He was here and yet he still felt like he didn’t belong. Even in his beautiful dress and shiny gold stilettos, wearing diamonds he could never have afforded himself.

The cookie was dry in his throat, and Trott swallowed the last bite uncomfortably. He told himself he would feel better with a drink, and made his way to one of the bars at the side of the ballroom. Trott slipped apologetically between guests, glad the colored lights in the room at least concealed some of his expression. He felt very strange. Maybe he could sit at the bar until Kim got here. She’d promised to come early.

A group of women in ruffled dresses drifted past, talking loudly about some museum. Trott had to step around a man just standing there, staring up at the projected painting and ignoring everything around him. The Swedish princess laughed uproariously at something.

With intense relief, Trott found himself at a bar near the big double doors. It would be a good place to wait. There weren’t seats at the bar, but there were some tables and chairs along the wall. Trott did not care if it would look pathetic to be sitting alone. He just needed some space in this crowd.

When the men in front of him had swaggered off with their drinks, Trott put a hand on the bar. He was still watching the doors and hoping to see Kim at any moment. He glanced at the bartender and did a surprised double take.

“What are you having?” Ross asked, as cool and professional as if he had never met Trott. He wore the black shirt and vest all the hotel staff wore, and his hair was slicked back. Ross wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his belt.

“What are you doing here?” Trott hissed. His anxiety became something entirely different in the moment, a cold fear.

“Working.”

“Working?” Trott felt his voice inching higher.

“I spent a lot of time in college bartending,” Ross said by way of explanation. He carefully poured shots of white sambuca into a large glass of ice and topped it off with cola. He pushed it down the bar, to a man waiting at the opposite end. Trott chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“How about I make you something, see if you like it?” Ross offered, wiping the bar and placing a napkin in front of Trott.

“You can’t be here,” Trott said a panicked voice.

“It is sweet of you to worry, but I’m fine.” Ross smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Fine,” Trott snapped. “Everyone’s fine. He’s not here if that’s what you were hoping.”

“I know.” Ross filled a shaker with ice.

“Then why?” Trott asked, almost angry now. He tried not to look directly at Ross, glancing around the party. He could not see Sips, which made him feel relieved but also nervous. The last thing he wanted was a dramatic scene.

“Maybe I wanted to see you.”

The comment made Trott turn back to the bar. Ross was pouring shots of cognac, rum, and splashing in some Cointreau. He glanced up at Trott, his expression thoughtful.

“You probably don’t like these too sweet.” He splashed in a bit of syrup and squeezed a lemon over it before twisting on the lid to shake up the drink.

“Right.”  

“I did want to talk to you,” Ross said, speaking just loud enough to be heard. Trott was glad no one else was there in the moment. He didn’t want to risk Sips’ jealous anger or worse.

“About what?”

Ross strained the drink into a wide glass. It was pale yellow, a bit frothy from the shaking. Flakes of ice glimmered in it. He set it down carefully in front of Trott.

“Tell me what you think.” He turned away to rinse out the used shakers. One of the circling waiters leaned over the end of the bar, calling out for a couple more drinks. Ross nodded.

Trott sipped at the drink. It was tart, barely sweetened at all by the rum or the sugar. But it was refreshingly lemony, strong enough to fortify him against this unsettling moment.

“Lovasz was sleeping with Smith,” Ross said. His voice was low but casual, and his hands were busy mixing up a line of martinis. “Or rather, he was paying Smith to sleep with him.”

Trott took another drink, swallowing half his glass. “That’s not true.”

“I’ve talked to some people,” Ross said. His voice was still mild. “Smith used to turn tricks to make rent, before he started selling his work at Skyblock. That’s how they met.”

“Oh for fuck’s… fuck you.” Trott drained the glass and slammed it down on the bar. Ross poured a line of martinis.

“Between the sheets.”

“What?”

“That’s what the drink is called.” Ross nodded at the empty glass. “Do you want another? Or are you going to go find him, get me thrown out?”

Trott wavered. Ross garnished the martinis with skewers of olives, and handed them off to the waiter who stepped up to the bar. They were alone again.

“Fine, give me another drink.” Trott glanced into the crowd again. “What the actual fuck?”

Ross shrugged, and took the glass away. He pulled out a fresh one, and set to work mixing up another cocktail.

“A lot of the people living in those artsy warehouses don’t exactly hold down nine to five jobs. Or ten to seven in your case.” Ross sliced another lemon, his gestures neat and quick. “Smith was doing what he needed to do to keep himself from being homeless, to afford paint.”

“Why do you-”

“Enough people saw him there that they could describe him, or recognized his picture.” Ross poured out the liquor. “He was a regular down there. Rough trade, everyone said. But I figure you already know that.”

Trott felt a chill run down his body. He looked away, fighting to control his facial expression. He could almost feel the alcohol in his stomach. Dinner from room service was a long time ago.

“Ever meet a guy named Tracey? Dresses like you?”

“Do I know any crossdressing hookers?” Trott asked in a low, furious voice. “No, I do not, and I have never-”

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Trott,” Ross sighed.

“Why do you keep asking me about Smith and all this… whatever.”

“Because I think Smith went missing long before that fire burned up the warehouse on Canal street-”

“He wasn’t living there anymore,” Trott interrupted. “He’d moved out.” He thought all this could just be solved if Sips explained things to Ross. The likelihood of that happening was slim. Maybe Trott could convince him to let it go.

“His rent was paid up through the end of the year, I checked.”

“So he was being nice to his landlord?” Trott shrugged.

“Then why were his paintings gone but not his belongings?”

“Maybe he’s one of those people who moves slowly? Sips said they arranged moving the paintings first. He was probably more worried about his art than his couch.”

“Right before the fire.” Ross gave him a look, and there was something pitying in it.

Trott lifted his chin, took another sip of his drink. This conversation was tiresome and circular. He regretted getting into it.

“Did he tell you how they met?” Ross asked, cleaning glasses. “I know he’s told people different stories, part of the mystique. But I wanted to know what he told you.” Ross moved quickly, efficiently. Another waiter appeared, calling out a drink order. Ross nodded, and lined up a fresh row of martini glasses with sugared rims. He poured Trott’s cocktail into a fresh glass and pushed it forward.

“We don’t talk about Smith,” Trott managed, once Ross. His throat was tight, dry. Ross gave him a look, a half smile.

“Well.” Ross strained the lemon yellow drink into the row of martini glasses before passing them off to the waiter. “That is probably safer.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Something’s rotten about this whole situation.” Ross held Trott’s gaze. “Be careful, Trott.”

“Leave me alone,” Trott snapped. “I don’t need your help or your pity or whatever the fuck.”

Trott carried the drink away. He could feel Ross watching him. A surge of anger made him look for Sips, thinking he’d get Ross thrown out anyways. But as he scanned the room, he thought about what he would say. How could he explain it without telling Sips about the previous times he’d met Ross. Sips would be angry that he hadn’t said anything. Trott could already imagine Sips’ expression, his disdainful voice, the way he’d grip Trott’s wrist hard enough to hurt.

He took another gulp of his drink, set the glass on a table, and walked towards the doors instead. Maybe he could slip out, find a quiet spot to collect himself. Or he could even take the elevator back up to the suite. Suddenly he wanted to be away from this crowd.

Kim walked in the door just as he’d made his mind up to get out. She waved at him with a huge grin. Trott hurried towards her, relieved.

To his immense surprise, he almost walked straight into Marjorie Astor Cohen and her bodyguard. They were walking arm in arm between the tables.

“Why hello!” Marjorie exclaimed. To his immense surprise she stopped and held out her hands to him. Hans glanced at him, and around the crowd. He looked almost bored.

“Hello again!” Marjorie said as she kissed the air by his cheeks. “You look absolutely divine. I can’t get over how exquisite that dress is.”

“Oh, thank you,” Trott said, recovering his composure. “Do you have a moment? I’d love for you to meet someone. I know it’s not Smith but...”

“Of course, darling.”

Kim strolled up with her hands in her pockets of her tuxedo pants. Her red shirt had been altered to fit her narrow waist, and the satin lapels of her jacket were decorated with several pins. A ruby flower sat next to an Erasure button and one that said “Riots Not Diets.” She wore a pair of three inch high heels to add a few inches to her diminutive stature. Her dramatic eye makeup and fuschia lipstick contrasted with her slicked back hair to make her seem edgy and androgynous. People were already looking at her hungrily.

“Kim, I wanted to introduce you to Marjorie Astor Cohen. Marjorie, this is Kim Richards, my boss at the Nano.” Trott could hear himself speaking too fast, his voice pitched up nervously. He’d had those two drinks too quickly, and he was a jumble of anxieties.

“Ms Astor Cohen,” Kim gushed with genuine delight that belied her tough girl aura. “I have always wanted to meet you!”

“Please, call me Marjorie so I can pretend I’m your age instead of mine.” Marjorie leaned forward, offering her a cheek kiss. “You look absolutely stunning, my dear. I love a woman committed to a bold look.”

Kim grinned, nudging Trott with her elbow. She didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, and Trott was grateful for it.

“Well Marjorie, can I get you a drink and flirt outrageously with you and talk to you about art?” Kim offered.

“Of course.” Marjorie smiled serenely. Hans trailed behind them, a giant compared to the two women.

Trott breathed out a sigh, and went to follow them. He could relax a little with Kim around.

“Well there you are, Trott,” a voice drawled behind him. “I should have known I’d find you around Marjorie.”

Trott turned, not recognizing the voice.

“Honey, you haven’t been to brunch in ages and people are asking about you,” Miss J Alexander continued. Dressed in crushed white velvet, Miss J’s ebony skin gleamed in sharp contrast. His hair was slicked back in a high bun, and dangling hoops hung from his ears. Silver glitter dusted his eyelids and even his cheekbones. The strapless dress skimmed his body, and a high slit flashed a glimpse of leg. Statuesque and tall, Miss J was one of the most famous models to come out of the City in recent years. They went to many of the same clubs, but Trott had never spoken to Miss J before. He’d certainly never been to any of the brunches.

Trott had hardly gone out at all this year. His club friends were not frequent callers, and he didn’t have numbers for most of them. If he wanted to see someone, he had to go out. For months Trott hadn’t had the energy to dress up and go out. He didn’t want to deal with the men like Lewis who lurked on the edges of the clubs, he didn’t want to rehash the break up, and he didn’t want the ‘I told you so’  looks from anyone. He’d developed a habit of watching too much TV and eating frozen food on his couch.

“Lovely to see you see you,” Trott managed, recovering himself. “What--”

“Let’s find a quieter place to catch up.” Miss J pulled Trott swiftly to the edge of the room, and into the hallway just outside. He flung open the door to the ladies room dramatically. A pair of women in silver and green looked up from where they leaned against the counter sharing something out of a purse.

“Ladies, would you mind giving us a minute? We need to have a talk.” Miss J smiled affably as they cleared out. One of them sniffed and rubbed her face.

Alone in the fancy sitting area, Trott walked to the mirror. He tried to calm himself by checking his lipstick. His makeup was excellent, unsmudged. His eyes looked a bit wide. In the mirror he could see Miss J cross his arms, watching him with cool detachment.

“Well, he definitely has a type,” Miss J said after a moment of silent appraisal.

“Who?” Trott asked.

“Sips, of course.” Miss J smiled and sat down on one of the chaises arranged in the tiny sitting area. “Or did you think you were the first pretty boy in a skirt to catch his eye?”

“I really didn’t… I don’t know what you want me to say to that.” Trott turned from the mirror. He was confused. “What is this about?”

“I’m just here to give you a friendly word of advice, Trott. That man is trouble and you need to be careful.”

“Is this more bullshit about Smith?” Trott asked, exasperated.

“How many times did you suck Sips’ dick for those earrings?”

Trott flushed, angry and embarrassed by the insinuation. “I’m not a prostitute.”

“A man who picks up whores treats everyone like a whore.” Miss J raised his eyebrows as if this was a statement of the obvious.

“What are you talking about?” Trott repeated desperately.

“You didn’t know?” Miss J chuckled. “Where do you think Sips found Smith? It certainly wasn’t at a fancy art gallery.”

“I... “ Trott’s voice faltered. Ross had just told him the same thing. It would make sense, if Smith had been a sex worker, why he was so cagey about his past in the few interviews. Why he didn’t want anyone investigating his life. But what it could have to do with his art, or with Sips or with Trott? He didn’t want to tie any of these threads together.

“I’m not really trying to be mean to you.” Miss J examined his nails briefly before smoothing a hand over his dress. “I’m trying to warn you. I know what he’s like.”

“How do you know anything about what he’s like?” Trott asked.

“Sips is a good talker, everybody knows that. But he’s rough with anything he considers his property.” Miss J stood up and approached Trott. He reached out and gripped Trott’s chin, turning his face from side to side. “He’s smart enough not to hit you in the face, isn’t he? He only hurts you somewhere you can cover it up.”

“I got the hell out of there when I realized just how nasty he could get,” Miss J continued when Trott remained silent. “He’s got a nasty temper. You know that. I can see you know what I’m talking about.”

Part of Trott wanted to confess in sheer relief, and part of him remained stubbornly silent. He pulled his head away, looking at the floor.

“People like us, we need to look out for each other.” Miss J put her hands on Trott’s shoulders. “There’s no amount of diamonds worth what he’s going to put you through. The more he gives you, the worse it is going to get.”

“It’s not like that,” Trott croaked finally. It was a feeble defense.

“Oh honey, it is like that. You just aren’t ready to admit it yet.” Miss J squeezed his shoulders. “You come see me when you do, I’m not hard to find. Now I’ll let you get back to your party.”

Miss J left the room, hips swinging with the confident walk of a model who treated every room like a runway. Trott turned back to the mirror. The diamond earrings caught the lights. He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the marble counter. It took several deep breaths before he could calm down enough to walk back into the party.

Finding Marjorie and Kim took much longer than Trott expected. Every few feet, someone stopped him. People he’d never seen before offered their hellos before questions that ranged from subtle to blatant. Everyone asked about Sips, and everyone found some way to ask about Smith. It was a little unnerving.

By the time he managed to find the table where Marjorie was holding court, Trott needed another drink.

“I’m so sorry,” Trott said as he pulled a chair up beside Kim. “People kept stopping me and I know if I didn’t talk to them--”

“Don’t worry, I’m having a blast.” Kim twirled the stem of a cocktail cherry.

On her other side, Marjorie was asking a young guy in a shiny purple tuxedo if he’d ever gone sailing. Hans sat just behind her, listening.

“Kim, do you like to sail?” Marjorie asked, turning to them. “Trott, I’m glad you made it back. Hostessing duties at these events are so draining, you should be sure to rest your feet every now and then.”

“Oh I’m not really the hostess of this, it is all Sips’ deal.”

“Well, you are on the man of the hour’s arm,” Marjorie said. “So I’m afraid some of it does fall on you.”

“That explains why so many people suddenly want to talk to me,” Trott laughed.

“This is a nice party,” Kim declared, finishing her drink.

“It is very fashionable,” Marjorie agreed. The colored lights shifted overhead, the slides projecting a new set of paintings. They were some of Smith’s earliest work. Colored smears were layered on top of graffiti tags and the quick, rough lines of spray paint. Looking up at the projections, Trott was reminded of sitting on the bus with the raining pouring down riding around the City. He unexpectedly found himself thinking of Smith. Another refugee from the flat, dull plains, on his first bus ride into the City, watching the rain streak the graffiti colors on the side of the buildings, the rush of traffic, people on the sidewalks slipping past each other. The buildings stretching high overhead, taller than telephone poles or grain silos, angular hands reaching for the sky, breaking up the horizon into slivers of color and clouds. Trott remembered all of his first days now, the weightless feeling of being free in a strange place, as he looked at the paintings rendered larger than life.

 

* * *

 

It should have felt more thrilling to be on Sips’ arm as he worked the room shaking hands and greeting people. He was meeting actors, musicians, artists, all the sort of people. It was some childhood fantasy come to life except that it was nothing like what he’d daydreamed about. The experience reminded Trott a bit too much of the terrible business dinner. Especially when he found himself standing beside Paul Hadleigh again. Sips had turned around to consult Angor about something when Paul sidled up out of the crowd.

In his bespoke tuxedo and ivory shirt, Paul looked every inch the impeccable wealthy gentleman. His bowtie had a purplish sheen, catching the light. He looked Trott up and down blatantly, eyebrows slightly raised and his lips quirked with amusement.

“No need to ask how you’re doing,” Paul said as he took Trott’s unwilling hand. “I see Sips all over you.”

Trott blinked, caught off guard by how effortlessly vulgar the words were when Paul spoke them. He looked around, but Sips had his back to them. Angor would not be any help.

“What, you can’t even talk to an old friend without checking in?” Paul chuckled. He put his arm around Trott’s waist, shamelessly running a hand over the bare skin of his back.

“Are we friends, Mr. Hadleigh?” Trott asked, striving to put an arch note in his voice. He tried to step back but Paul’s arm tightened until they were chest to chest.

“Oh I bet you’re very friendly for the right price.”  Paul looked down at Trott, a nasty smile on his face. “Perhaps we could go somewhere more private and discuss it, hmm?”

The insinuation stunned Trott into silence. He put a hand on Paul’s chest, trying to push himself away. He was uncomfortably aware of the way Paul pressed his hips forward.

“Let go of me,” Trott said in a low voice.

“What’s that?”

“Let. Go.” Trott strained to pull himself away.

Unexpectedly, Paul shoved him and Trott stumbled backwards. He managed not to fall down but there was nothing graceful about it. Sips turned, staring at him with a frown. Angor laughed just behind him.

“I think your date’s had a few too many drinks, Sips.” Paul spoke in a bored drawl, as if he hadn’t just been propositioning and groping Trott.

“Open bar,” Sips said with a shrug.

He took Trott’s arm, his grip a little tighter than necessary.

“Someone should be cut off,” Paul sneered. He half turned. “Meanwhile, I need a glass of champagne.”

Angor followed Paul, leaning in to engage him in conversation as they moved towards the nearest bar. Watching them walk away, Trott burned with humiliation and anger.

“Are you drunk?” Sips asked in his ear.

“I’m fine,” Trott said, shaking his head. “He pushed me!”

Sips raised his eyebrows, glancing towards Paul.

“Eh, Paul, he’s a jealous kind of guy.” Sips put his arm around Trott’s waist and began walking away from the bar. “He probably just wanted to back at me by messing with you. Don’t take it too personally.”

“He said I was-”

“Trott,” Sips said. “Let it go. Forget about it.”

“Okay.” Trott looked away, grimacing. He struggled to tamp down the angry, upset feeling in his chest. He wanted to walk back to Paul and hit him or at least dump a drink on him. But Sips would be furious and it would end up in someone’s report to the tabloids if not the society column for the paper.

Sips’ hand was warm where it rested on his hip, and Sips leaned in to speak in his ear. His breath tickled Trott’s skin.

“Don’t fuck up a good thing, Trott,” Sips said. “The Hadleigh family money is going to fund Skyblock’s expansion. So just smile and let it go.”

When Sips pulled back, he smiled as if he had been whispering romantic words instead of prosaic ones. Trott opened his mouth to ask a question. A camera flashed, startling him. It was the photographer from earlier, taking party shots. He gave Sips a thumbs up, and moved off to photograph a group of people dancing in front of the DJ to a Madonna mix.

“Smile, princess.” Sips squeezed Trott’s hip again. “Go dance, and I’ll keep Paul away from you.”

Trott nodded, forcing a smile he didn’t really feel. He turned away, wading into the growing crowd on the dance floor. He felt self conscious in this absurdly expensive dress covered in beading, anxious not to tear anything. But dancing at least meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone or pretend like things were fine. This party was not turning out quite how he imagined. But the music swelled overhead, and the DJ was actually decent. Trott danced until his feet burned in the stilettos.

 

* * *

 

In the early morning hours, Sips and Trott rode the elevator back up to the suite. Trott was tired and his toes ached. He was glad to kick off his heels, to feel the soft carpet under his stockinged feet. Trott walked a bit unsteadily to the windows looking out at the city. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen it from so high up. There were no stars, just a thousand lit windows stretching out before them, the sallow glow of street lights and the flickering lights of cars.

Sips tossed his jacket on the sofa. Trott could ever so faintly see their reflection in the glass. Sips drank the last of a cocktail. He’d shed his bow tie, and unbuttoned the stiff white shirt.

“I was thinking…” Sips pressed his lips to Trott’s hair. “I want you to spend the holiday with me. Come out the lake house. It can be just the two of us, nice and cozy. You’ll love it.”

“We can spend Christmas there, and come back to the city for the New Year’s parties,” Sips said. He traced a lazy spiral down Trott’s shoulder.

“”Really?” Trott turned to face him, wonder in his voice. Sips’ hand stroked the back of Trott’s neck.

He’d never spent the holidays with someone he was seeing before. There was also some reason it couldn’t happen, or they broke up before it ever became an issue. There were several years Trott celebrated alone, pretending he was fine with it. A couple times he’d spent it with Kim which was very nice but not quite what he wanted.

“Yeah, really.” Sips lifted him up, and carried him into the bedroom. “Just you and me, princess.”

For a split second, Trott wanted to flail and kick his way free. But he quashed that impulse, and let himself be carried. His heart beat double time.

“I should take off the jewelry before...” he whispered.

“No. Leave it on.” Sips set him down on his feet beside the enormous hotel bed. He sat down, leaning back on his hands. “But take off everything else.”

Trott slowly stripped down, carefully pulling off his party dress. Then he bent over to roll down his stockings, pulling them gently off his feet. Then he looked up at Sips, watching him with a smile. Ever so slowly, he slipped down the expensive panties. The black lace tickled his skin. He shaved and waxed off every stray bit of hair yesterday, an enormous undertaking that left his bathroom a disaster. But it was the kind of thing Sips enjoyed, so he did it.

“Come here,” Sips said in a gruff, thick voice. Trott moved closer. The gold bracelet on his wrist and the diamond earrings were the only things he wore.

“On your knees for me, princess.”

Obediently, Trott knelt. Sips’ hand caressed his face, sliding over his cheek and down to his neck. With his other, he worked open the zipper of his tuxedo trousers. He was already hard. He pushed Trott’s head down without a word. The weight of his hand on the back of Trott’s neck was command enough.

Trott braced his hand on Sips’ knee, and began to suck. The shallow thrust of Sips’ hips was enough to make him gag, but Trott tucked his thumb his palm to keep from making a sound or pulling away. Sips didn’t like it when he gagged. Instead he concentrated on trying to keep a steady rhythm. He ran his tongue along the underside of Sips’ cock.

The feel of Sips’ hands on his head was almost comforting. Fingers curled in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as he bobbed his head. Trott pushed himself to take as much of Sips as he could, trying to relax his throat. His earrings swung against his jaw. The motion reminded him of Miss J’s cutting words, and Trott fumbled for a moment. He pulled away.

“Don’t stop now,” Sips chuckled. Trott closed his eyes and made a soft sound of assent. He reached between Sips’ legs to stroke his balls. Sometimes Sips wanted him to suck on them. But Sips impatiently thrust his cock back into Trott’s mouth.

Gradually, the pressure from Sips’ hands increased. He started to pull on Trott, making him move faster and faster. It got harder and harder to catch his breath as he sucked up and down the length of Sips’ cock. Trott wrapped his free hand around the base of Sips’ cock, squeezing and stroking him in hopes of making it end just a little faster. His jaw ached but Trott knew he couldn’t stop.

Sips groaned, coming in Trott’s mouth. Trott sputtered a little, trying to swallow. He slowed his movements until he could pull his mouth away completely. Resting his head against Sips’ thigh, Trott closed his eyes. The room felt like it was spinning a little. The carpet rubbed at his knees.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” Sips said in the quiet.

“I do,” Trott answered. “I love you, too.”

Sips stood up, pulling his pants down. “Let’s go to bed, princess.”

“I gotta wash off this makeup,” Trott mumbled as he stumbled into the bathroom.

The chill of the water helped. Trott splashed his face, scrubbing at his face, scrubbing with a hotel washcloth that quickly stained with traces of makeup. The taste of come and booze lingered in his mouth. Trott rinsed with a tiny bottle of mouthwash while he tried to get the last of his makeup off. He was too tired to do it properly.

In the mirror, Trott stared at himself. The earrings sparkled.

“I am not a whore,” Trott whispered to his reflection.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, a light snow began to fall over the City. Tiny flakes drifted down past the windows. Wrapped up in the plush hotel robe, Trott sat on the arm of the sofa in the sitting room of the hotel suite. He stared out the window at the grey sky and listened to the ring of the phone. In the bathroom, he heard the flush of the toilet and the sound of the shower start.

“Hello?” Kim’s voice crackled in the line.

“Hey, it’s Trott. What are you doing?”

“Living with my hangover, what are you doing?”

“Watching the snow from the suite in the Park.” Trott was hungover as well. He had that grim, miserable feeling of the morning after like nothing would ever feel good or make him happy again. It was worse than the headache. He was grateful for the shadowless light of a snowy day, the grey skies and grey buildings. It took away all the sharp edges of the daylight. Trott just wanted to lay on the sofa and do nothing for hours.

“You’re still at the hotel?”

“Yeah, we stayed here last night.”

“Nice.” On the other end of the line, he could hear Kim clanking ice into a glass. “It was a good party.”

“Yeah. I’m glad you came.”

“Anything to meet Marjorie,” Kim chuckled. “Speaking of, guess who’s going to have tea with her next week?”

“Really?” Trott said.

“If I fuck her on the polar bear rug, I’ll be sure to tell you. Maybe Hans will be there to watch. That guy’s biceps are as big as my head.”

“Oh god, don’t even put these pictures in my head.”

“What?”

“You’re awful.”

“I’m fantastic,” Kim declared.

Trott smiled at Kim’s blithe assurance even as she chugged painkillers and juice. He was familiar with her routine from a hundred Sundays. They would dance until dawn, sleep a few hours, and wake up to drink all the orange juice in the fridge while watching MTV.

“You won’t believe who I saw last night. It was right before I introduced you to Marjorie, actually. The last person I expected to see, really.” Trott curled the phone cord around his fingers. It wasn’t very long so he couldn’t pace around the room with it.

“Tell me it wasn’t Lewis.”

“It wasn’t.” Trott took a breath. He could hear Sips singing in the shower. “It was that private detective guy, the one who came to the Nano.”

“Are you serious?” Kim gasped. “What the hell?”

“I know.”

“Did you tell Lovasz?”

“No, I didn’t.” Trott glanced nervously at the door to the bathroom, and carried the phone further towards the window. The cord stretched tight from the wall. Any further and he might accidentally pull it out. “I haven’t told him about that at all.”

“Really?”

“He’d just get mad, the whole situation makes him completely lose it.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Trott.”

“Look, I just really don’t…” Trott sighed. “That’s not all.”

“Oh god, what else?”

“Did you know Sips went out with Miss J?”

“Are you serious?” Kim exclaimed. “No, I didn’t know that. Is that true?”

“I don’t know why he’d lie about it.”

“Sips told you that?”

“No, Miss J did.”

“Christ,” Kim groaned. “This fucking party.”

“I think it was just weird ex kind of stuff, but he was trying to warn me off Sips and kept talking about Smith and I just…” Trott sighed. He didn’t know how much he should tell Kim. Too much and he might have to explain some of the less than perfect parts of his relationship with Sips.

“I don’t know what to think. I’m freaked out.”

“Trott.” Kim’s voice was low and serious. “Is everything okay, with you and your boyfriend?”

“Of course.” Trott tried to sound like the question was absurd.

“You don’t seem okay.”

“He’s not mad at me, he’s mad at Smith and whatever the deal is with this private investigator and the press.” Trott tried to sound reassuring. “I just don’t want to stress him out with that, or with all the shit Miss J talked.”

“Are you scared of him?” Kim asked. “Because that is not a good sign, _hello!_ ”

“Well yeah, I get scared he gets furious because he’s an intense guy! But I’m not afraid of him, I don’t know, doing anything to me. It’s not like that at all. It really isn’t.”

“Okay,” Kim said.

“Seriously, you would be the first person to know if there was a problem.”

“Okay,” Kim repeated. The reluctance was clear in her voice. “But if he hurts you or hits you, walk out on his ass. He’s not worth that.”

“I know.”

The water turned off in the bathroom.

“I should run, I think we’re getting brunch.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay, Trott?”

“Yeah, I just needed to tell someone about all that weird stuff.” Trott unwound the cord from his fingers, concentrating on making his voice light and carefree. “I just want all this drama with Smith to go away, you know?”

“I know.” Kim sighed. “I am going to be on the couch with an ice pack on my head. Call me if you need me, okay?”

“Okay. See you later.”

“See ya,” Kim said.

Trott hung up the phone and set it back on the table in the sitting room. Stepping in front of the mirror, he finger combed his hair back.

“Trott, princess, get dressed. I’m _starving_.” Sips walked into the sitting room, buttoning up his shirt. His hangover habits were the opposite of Trott’s. Sips wanted to move, to eat, to outrun and outfox his headache before it could catch up to him.

“We could just eat here,” Trott said, gesturing at the room.

“Nah, room service is always cold by the time it gets here. I have a reservation at Odeon anyway, so hurry it up.”

“Just give me a minute and I’ll be ready.” Reluctantly, Trott went to put on his clothes and hoped he would look presentable enough for a loud brunch in a restaurant that would no doubt be full of people who went to last night’s party. The memories of Miss J and Paul both implying that he was a whore troubled him. Trott wondered just how many other people shared that opinion.

Slowly, he slipped the long blue dress over his head. The crinkled skirt was so light and the sleeves only came to his elbow. It would be cold but he could keep the blazer on at brunch at least. He belted the velvet blazer tightly and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of hose.

Trott didn’t have anything against people who made their living selling sex. There was nothing really wrong with doing that, aside from the trouble with the police and the obvious dangers of working so closely with strangers. It stung his pride to think that people thought there was no other reason he would be with Sips beside money. That he wasn’t creative or interesting or beautiful enough to just be desired, that he couldn’t be in love with Sips if it didn’t involve cash.

He found some courage as he applied his lipstick, swiping the daytime rich pink over his lips. Trott wound all his bracelets around his wrists, and practiced a smile in the mirror. He wanted to look beautiful and unconcerned, as if all these whispers and insinuations could never shake him.

_“Trott!”_

“I’m coming, let me grab my shoes!” Trott stared at all his things, shoving his makeup back in the bag. “Sips, what about our stuff, do we need to check out?”

“Angor will pick it all up and take it back to my place.” Sips checked his watch. “Car will be here any minute.”

“Alright, alright.” Trott stuffed his tired feet into his daytime heels, and grabbed his purse. _It would be fine_ , he told himself. Everything would be fine. He’d feel better to have some food and then they could go back to Sips’ place for a quiet afternoon. Trott stood up, straightened his skirt, and went to brunch.


	14. Chapter 14

Monday’s paper had a small write up of the party that briefly noted Smith’s absence under the massive projections of his paintings. It also described Skyblock’s contributions to a local food bank of all the leftover party food, as well as a generous check. Trott was relieved that the main picture was just Sips, standing in the lobby of the hotel hours before the party began. The magazine pictures wouldn’t be published for a month. He didn’t have to think about it for awhile. The idea that someone would see him was still troubling, even though Trott was certain no one back home would connect an awkward teenager with a bowl cut to the blond in the pictures. The idea lingered though, that his mother might experience some shock of recognition flipping through the pages of Vogue at the hair salon. It was troubling.

He woke up late on Wednesday, not wanting to get out of the warm nest of blankets. It was wet and cold outside, and he dragged himself to work. The morning was already a gloomy one. His lipstick was the wrong shade of red, too orange and garish to go well with the dark green sweater dress. He hadn’t remembered to grab an umbrella so he wrapped his scarf around his head, hoping to keep his hair mostly dry. A gust of wind and icy, stinging rain caught him in the face as the crossed the street.

“There he is!” an unfamiliar voice shouted. It was the sort of thing Trott was used to ignoring on the city streets. Millions of people lived here, and there was always someone yelling on the street. Most of the time it didn’t matter. He didn’t even look up until the flash went off beside his face. Trott stumbled backwards, jerking away from the group of men on the sidewalk. A man grinned wolfishly, his thick brown mustache the only feature Trott registered as he lifted an enormous black camera.

“Smile for the camera, baby!” A burst of laughter and more flashes. Trott blinked, blinded by the after images from the light. Voices rose in a cacophony around him.

“Is it true?”

“How long have you and Lovasz been sleeping together?”

“Have you talked to Alex Smith?”

“Is it true you’re the reason he didn’t come to his own premiere?”

“ _What_?” Trott asked, bewildered. He tried to sidestep the crowd, holding his bag and his coffee. Raindrops spattered his face, water sliding down his neck under his scarf

“Any comment, baby?”

“Did you sleep with both of them?”

“Is it true?”

“I don’t -- I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trott wanted to scream. He hoped he didn’t look as terrible as he felt in that moment. Another flash made him flinch.

“Please,” Trott said. His voice cracked. He wished he was wearing his sneakers instead of the little silver vinyl boots Kim brought back from Paris for him. He couldn’t run in these, or pull them off to hit someone with a heel. The crowd pressed closer, and Trott felt his throat tighten with unexpected fear. Cold rain gusted over everyone

“Hey!” Kim’s voice cut through the crowd, her banshee screech causing several people to step back. She glared from the doorway with her hands on her hips, the angular shoulders of her black suit jacket making her more imposing. The stacked heels of her red shoes gave her a few more inches.

“Some of us have real work to be doing, thank you! Get the fuck off my doorstep or I’m calling the police.” She let the door close with a bang behind them before ostentatiously locking it. Deliberately Kim gave them the finger.

Inside the gallery it felt shockingly quiet. The main lights were off, making the room dim in the wan December light. Trott stared at the assortment of paintings leaning against the wall, the little Christmas bazaar of art student work they were putting up for a week. 

“What the fuck was that?” Trott finally managed. He pulled off his coat, grimacing at the rain splattering the floor. 

“Did you see the tabloids this morning?” Kim asked grimly. She steered Trott back to the office where several papers waited on the desk. 

The headline  _ ART WORLD MYSTERY LOVE TRIANGLE _ ran above a picture of him with Sips at the Christmas party, and a picture of Smith. It was one Trott had seen a few times, a grainy paparazzi shot of Smith walking down the street with a hat pulled down on his head. 

_ FRIENDS SAY ALEX SMITH IS HEARTBROKEN, RUMORS THE ARTIST WILL NEVER PAINT AGAIN! _

_ BLOND AMBITION _ screamed a headline, over a photo of Trott from the Halloween Ball. His lips were pressed in an unsmiling line, the rest of his face hidden behind the mask. Beside him, Sips loomed in his beast costume. Trott remembered that moment, how giddy he felt and how desperately afraid he was of falling down in his heavy dress in front of all those cameras.

“Did you buy these?” Trott asked, feeling numb.

“Only so you wouldn’t have to go out to see them. I would have bought the entire shop if I thought that would have made a difference.” Kim flopped down in her chair and kicked off her shoes. “Those fucking assholes, how can I even open with them lurking out there?”

“Why is this happening?” Trott pulled his eyes away from the tabloids, concentrating on taking off his sodden scarf.

“Are you really asking me that?”

“I just mean, why now? I’ve been seeing Sips for months. Why suddenly all this?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say because Smith didn’t show up to that party.” Kim put her feet on the edge of the desk, wiggling her toes against the confines of her hose. “Someone’s mad or upset about it.””

Trott nodded. Not that he knew anything about Smith, not really.

“Didn’t you tell me Miss J cornered you at the party?”

“Yeah.”

“That is exactly who I’d expect to go calling one of these gossip columnists.”

“I don’t know, it didn’t seem like Miss J was jealous…” 

“Well, someone doesn’t like you seeing Sips.” Kim gestured at the pile of tabloids. “Maybe Smith.”

“No.” Trott shook his head. “That’s not how things were with them, Sips told me…”

“Uh huh.” Kim squinted, skeptically raising her eyebrows. “Well maybe it wasn’t how Sips saw it but it could be that Smith had a different idea of what their relationship was.”

“There wasn’t any relationship!” Trott knew his voice was too high, too loud, and struggled to control himself. “I think your first idea was more on track, Miss J or someone from the club scene. Smith’s a recluse, he won’t even do interviews about his work. There’s no way he’d go calling city tabloids like this.”

“Good point.” Kim swung her feet off the desk and glared at the door. “Go fix your hair, I’m going to see what I can do about those vultures out front.”

 

* * *

 

While Kim was busy making a harried young police officer write up trespassing citations for a couple of photographers who kept plastering themselves to the front door, Trott called Skyblock. He perched anxiously on the desk, holding the phone against his shoulder.

“Angor, this is Trott,” he said in a rush when the director picked up his phone. 

“The star of the hour,” Angor drawled in an amused tone.

“So I guess you know,” Trott sighed.

“I’m sure everyone knows by now.” Angor chuckled. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because Sips didn’t answer his phone, and I wondered if you knew where I could reach him.”

On the other end of the line, Angor sighed heavily.

“One second,” he muttered. The phone clattered to the desk. Trott gripped the plastic handset like it was a life preserver.

“Listen, a word of advice.” Angor’s voice was lower now. “He’s in a terrible mood. I wouldn’t call him right now if I were you.”

“But-”

“Listen to me. You don’t want to be the person in front of him while he’s this angry.”

“Right. Okay. Look, there was something else I wanted to ask you...” Trott twisted the phone cord around his fingers. The lie about Sips had just been the easy explanation for why he was calling Angor in case anyone asked. He couldn’t think of anyone else who might possibly help him.

“What?”

“Is there any way you could put me in touch with Smith?” 

A beat of silence, and then Angor whistled. Something about the low sound made Trott flush, embarrassment stinging his cheeks.

“I just thought-”

“ _Trott_ ,” Angor interrupted. “Absolutely _not_. No.” His voice was heavy, somehow even more serious this time.

“Okay.” Trott closed his eyes. It was reckless and crazy and something he really shouldn’t do. But he’d just had the idea that Smith hated this as much as he did, and maybe he should reach out.

“I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation,” Angor said briskly. “Take my advice, and wait for him to call you.” He hung up the phone.

 

* * *

 

They agreed Trott would just stay home for the rest of the week. Nina could take some extra hours, and persuaded a friend to come work the front desk. Kim bundled Trott into a cab with instructions to take a long route home. The driver relished the idea of outwitting anyone following him as if this was some spy movie and spent forty minutes driving around the city with one eye on his rear view mirror. Trott slumped in the back seat, trying to repress the unexpected tears threatening to spill over. The gloomy day sucked up all the light, and it was already nearly dark even though he was home hours early.

No reporters lurked on the doorstep of his building. Trott was glad he’d kept his home number unlisted all these years. Not being in the phone book had probably saved him a world of trouble. He hoped people would assume his name was some weird nickname and not go looking for any other Trotts they could dig up. 

The blinking light on his answering machine gave Trott an uneasy feeling. He dropped his keys and his bag on the kitchen counter before reaching out to hit the play button. There were three messages. Each one was silence, a long, eerie silence. The hair on the back of Trott’s neck stood up as he listened in the gloom of his apartment. Somehow they frightened him more than anything else that had happened.

The abrupt ring of the phone made Trott yelp, and he nearly knocked the phone and the answering machine off the end of the counter. 

“Hello?”

“Oh good, you’re home.” Kim’s voice was warm and familiar in his ear. Trott felt his heartbeat racing, badly startled.

“Yeah.” Trott coughed, trying to clear his throat. “Everything okay there?”

“Oh yeah, we’re fine. Did you have any trouble getting home?”

“No, it was quiet. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Good. Maybe just order take out and stay in, yeah? It’s dreadful outside anyways.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Call me if you need anything, okay? I can send someone if you need groceries or anything.”

“Will do.” Trott contemplated his fridge as he hung up the phone. Making food seemed like a hassle, though he hadn’t eaten since morning. 

He wanted to unplug the phone. But he was waiting for Sips to call and tell him everything was okay, that he’d straightened things out about Alex Smith and the papers and everything. Trott settled for turning down the ringer and leaving his machine on. It wouldn’t hurt to screen his calls for now, he thought. 

 

* * *

 

Bob Barker was explaining the rules of the showcase showdown on The Price is Right when the phone startled Trott out of his doze. He hadn’t slept well, waking several times in the night listening for the phantom sound of ringing. Instead of dressing for work, Trott made a mediocre cup of coffee and stayed wrapped up in his robe. He hadn’t spent a day at home like this in weeks.

“Trott, how come you’re at home?” Sips asked straight away, without even saying hello.

“Because there are reporters camped out in front of the gallery and Kim said not to bother,” Trott said, smothering a yawn. He dragged the phone back over to his little sofa, turning down the television. 

“Do you want me to make some calls?” On the other end of the line, Sips lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

“No, I think Kim’s got it under control.” Trott tucked his silk robe around himself. “Sips, I’m sorry-”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about, Trott.” The unexpected warmth in Sips’ voice caught Trott off guard. “I doubt you started all this bullshit.”

“Who would do this?”

“Someone with an axe to grind.” Trott could imagine Sips shrugging. “People love to see someone successful get knocked down a peg.”

“I never wanted...”

“Don’t worry about it, Trott. I got this.”

“What are we going to do?” Trott sighed.

“Well, you’re going to stay at home and try to relax for a few days. I’ll send someone by with dinner for you. I gotta go out of town, see the family. But I’ll be back next week and then we can go to the lake for Christmas. Sound good?”

“It does,” Trott admitted. “But do you think the papers....”

“Don’t worry, Trott.” Sips laughed. “They’ll find some other bone to chew on, they always do.”

“I thought you would be more upset about this.”

“Oh, I did all my yelling yesterday.” 

Trott wondered who was on the receiving end of Sips’ temper. He rubbed his hand over his arm, looking for any marks while he listened to Sips talk about everything but the things that mattered.

 

* * *

 

Part of Trott wanted to spend the week in Sips’ apartment, safe behind the doorman and building security. But no one had tracked him back to his place, and he didn’t want to see any new pictures of himself in the tabloids. 

He stayed in, almost as reclusive as the weeks after his break up with Lewis. Because his absence meant Kim was working long hours he hardly saw anyone. Sips had followed through with his promise, a series of deliveries arriving throughout the week with hot meals from various restaurants. Roses and amaryllis crowded the kitchen counter and the window sill, and Trott hung the fancy Christmas wreath of holly and pine on his bathroom door. He felt very decadent, surrounded by flowers and meals he didn’t have to prepare. 

Outside, the rain turned into sleet and then snow. For once, Trott got to enjoy it without thinking about the walk to work or carrying groceries home on the slippery street. It made the days feel even more disconnected, a little surreal. In his warm apartment, breathing in the perfume of flowers, Trott wrapped himself up in his favorite blanket to watch hours of game shows and soap operas. The voices flowed in one ear and out the other, his mind drifting on thoughts of Christmas. He still needed to wrap up Sips’ present but there was plenty of time. 

He hardly paid attention to the door chime, assuming it was another delivery of something or other. More flowers, maybe. Trott wore a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater of black and white diagonal stripes. His slippers were old, blue velveteen with stars made of silver thread and fake black fur. They’d come from one of those weird thrift stores, hardly worn and probably absurdly expensive, and they only cost $2. His heels stuck over the edge in the back because they were too small but Trott loved them despite that flaw.

He swung open the door, hand out to receive whatever delivery waited on the other side. Holding a large poinsettia, Ross peered at him with a faint frown. He wore a nondescript delivery man’s uniform, grey trousers and a zip up polyester jacket, a cap damp with flakes of melted snow. A navy blue scarf was wound around his neck. It was thin and looked cheap, not very warm. 

“What are you doing here?” Trott stared, noticing the scruff of stubble along Ross’ jaw. 

“Just thought someone should check in on you, that’s all.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Trott asked indignantly.

“Do you want to have this conversation in the hall? I am pretty sure your neighbors are home.”

Trott didn’t want to let him into his apartment. But the alternatives - talking to Ross in the hallway, Ross perhaps lurking outside his door or making a scene - were more aggravating. Reluctantly, Trott stepped back and waved him in irritably.

Ross handed Trott the plant, and looked around the apartment curiously. He stepped forward past the kitchen counter with a quick sidelong glance at the bathroom before turning around to take in the space.

“It’s a mess, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” Trott stuck his nose into the poinsettia, trying to figure out if they had any scent. They just smelled sort of green, not much like anything. That was fine by him.

“It’s exactly what I imagined,” Ross said. Trott could hear the smile in his tone. “You have a lot of beautiful art.”

“I just picked some things I liked, not because they’re good or worth anything.” Trott watched him, feeling a bit apprehensive. Kim would tell him this was an absolutely terrible idea to let this guy in. It probably was. Sips would freak out if he knew. Trott touched his hair, combing it behind his ears with his fingers. He wasn’t wearing any makeup, just some chapstick because he never drank enough water in the winter. 

“My record collection is like that,” Ross said. “Stuff I like.”

Trott tried to imagine what Ross could listen to and couldn’t think of anything. Classical music maybe? Or did he have a bunch of 70s rock albums? 

“So, why are you spying on me?” Trott put the poinsettia on top of his television. He was running out of places for flowers.

“More like checking up,” Ross said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “I know there are still reporters coming to the Nano.”

“And you’d know that because you are also lurking around my work.”

“All part of the job.” Ross raised his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of shrug. 

“As much as I appreciate your attempt to act like a normal person and express normal person concern, I am fine. I don’t need you checking in on me. Frankly it gives me the creeps that you know where I live.”

“My job is to know things, it’s not like a creep thing.” Ross flushed a little, pink brightening his cheeks. “It really isn’t like that!”

“Then how come you don’t know where Alex Smith is?” It came out much bitchier than Trott intended. He folded his arms across his chest, biting his tongue against the urge to apologize.

“I wish I did,” Ross sighed. He tucked his gloves into his jacket, and pulled an envelope out of a pocket. Trott watched as he pulled out a thin stack of photographs, the glossy prints reflecting the overhead light by the door.

“Do I even want to know what those are?”

“Could you just take a look?” Ross held them out. “ _Please?_ ”

Reluctantly, Trott took the pictures. They looked like someone’s party pictures, bodies crowded around a table covered in bottles and plastic cups. People grinned at the camera, some slightly out of focus.

In every one, the red flash of Alex Smith’s hair stood out. He grinned, looking relaxed or maybe drunk. Trott had never seen him smile like that before. In one photo, he was laughing. His eyes were scrunched shut, head tipped back and his mouth open wide.

“Why do you want me to look at these?” he asked. It looked like one of those warehouse parties. He’d gone to a few, a long time ago. Before he moved up into a steady job and dancing in real clubs instead of places where someone set up the power by running extension cords through a vacant lot. Places that would throw you out for blowing men in the bathroom for money. Not that Trott had ever done that. He’d never gotten quite that hungry or desperate. He knew he was lucky that way.

The last photo was of Sips, and Trott understood then why Ross had come up here to show him these. Half of his face was obscured by a hand holding a cigarette as he stared away into the darkness out of frame but it was unmistakably Sips. He wore a dark suit, his collar open and his tie undone. Smith stood behind him, looking over Sips’ shoulder into the camera. His eyes were wide, more pupil than iris. His cheek was pressed to Sips’ hair, his chin just over his shoulder. Trott squinted, holding the photo closer to his face. Smith’s arms were around Sips, his hands spread across Sips’ chest posessively. His fingers looked scratched, raw at the tips like he’d tried to dig into something. There was a bruise on Smith’s left wrist, a purple shadow by the bone. 

“They’re from a party in August. It’s the last time I can verify anyone besides Lovasz spoke to Smith. The last time anyone saw him.”

Ross’ voice buzzed in his ears. Trott opened his mouth, questions on the tip of his tongue. His phone rang. They both looked at it, sitting on the kitchen counter. It rang twice more before Trott forced himself to move and stop the shrill sound.

“Hello?” he answered, half dreading that it was Sips. Ross stood very still and Trott had the impression he was holding his breath.

The line crackled with silence. Trott bit his lip, a sick thrill of dread racing through him as he met Ross’ gaze. His eyes narrowed and Trott wondered what kind of expression he was making.

“Hello? Are you there?”

The moment stretched, seemingly endless before there was a soft click. The dial tone began to beep. Trott hung up the phone and they both stared at it, waiting for it to ring again.


	15. Chapter 15

Trott was surprised to see Sips behind the wheel of the black Mercedes that pulled up at the curb.

“I didn’t know you had a car,” he said as Sips tossed his suitcase in the trunk. The street was furred with fresh snow from the morning. Trott stepped carefully around the puddle of slush at the curb. He’d bought brand new boots for this trip but that didn’t mean he wanted to stand in an ankle deep puddle of icy water and trash.

“Of course I have a car.” Sips opened the door for him. “How else would I get around outside the city?”

It was nice inside. Slick leather seats, the radio knobs gleaming in the dash. Trott buckled his seat belt and pointed the vent at his lap. Everything smelled of smoke and leather.

“Do you go out there often? To the lake?” Trott touched the knitted white scarf wrapped around his neck. He’d worn the palest blue eyeshadow he could find in his makeup, and a lipstick called Rosebud. It was very pink, but Trott thought it worked with all the wintry colors.

“Yeah, whenever I have a chance.” Sips glanced over his shoulder, maneuvering the car into traffic.

It was a cloudy day, the grey sky blending into the frozen landscape. Sips sang along with the radio, gleefully off key at times. Trott watched the city disappear, the buildings growing shorter only to be replaced by hillsides full of trees reaching for the sky. Snow covered the fields and the occasional barn, smoke drifting from the chimneys of solitary farmhouses. Despite the warm air coming out of the vents, Trott felt chilled.

They drove for hours, stopping only for gas and cheap coffee. Trott smoked one of Sips’ cigarettes to keep from getting too hungry. The view only got more gloomy as they left the highway for the smaller roads. Winding along a narrow two lane stretch, they passed through some tiny little town that looked like a postcard village. In front of the small white church was a lit up nativity scene. Then it was back into the trees. There were a few houses nearer the road at first, but soon it was just long stone walls and trees, gates to driveways and unseen houses. It was much more remote than Trott had imagined. Between the trees, he glimpsed the lake. It reflected the sky, grey as concrete.

Finally, they turned into a paved driveway flanked with two large stone sphinxes. Trott wondered if the neighbors hated them or loved them. Not that he could see another driveway from here. Sips turned down the radio and hopped out of the car. Trott shivered, watching him swing open the arched metal gate, wrought iron bars decorated with a large gilded L.

“Welcome to my little hideaway.” The car crunched over fresh snow on the long driveway, between enormous old trees. A wide lawn opened up, pristine and white, and the house sat at the top waiting for them. It was enormous, one of those mid century modern masterpieces, all sharp angles and big windows that stretched out across the ground. The driveway curled round the front, widening out to provide room for several cars.

Trott followed Sips in the front double doors hung with wreaths, unable to stop himself from glancing around in wonder. It is not cold inside like he expected. Trott slipped his boots off, staring around. He half expected someone to appear to greet them.

It was a split level, with stairs leading up and down from the entry. The living room was just a half dozen steps down, a wide open space with floor to ceiling windows that looked out at the lake. The wood panelled walls were a dark, rich brown, and the living room was carpeted in that dark, avocado green that made Trott think of the 70’s. There were low couches, a recliner, and a square coffee table. The fireplace was all granite, grey and white. An older television in a wooden console was pushed against the wall on the near side of the fireplace. It didn’t look anything like Sips’ place in the city. That was all modern and sleek. Here there was a painting of autumnal trees, with a couple of deer standing placidly in the fallen leaves. He wondered if it was some kind of joke on Sips’ part to hang that picture.

Off to one side stood a Christmas tree, decorated in red and gold. Tinsel twinkled around the glass balls, and a filigree star decorated the top. The only thing missing were stockings and piles of wrapped presents to make it look like magazine cover.

“When did you have time to come out and put up a tree?” Trott asked. He stepped closer. It was a real tree, the air fragrant with the smell of fir. He touched his finger tips to a branch.

“I had someone come open up the house, get the heat going.” Sips shrugged. “Might as well have them decorate too.”

Trott poked his head into the kitchen. It looked to have been redone recently. No vintage appliances here, just white cabinets and black counters. The table in the breakfast nook, a big bay window, was the kind of formica topped thing that belonged in someone’s vision of a 1950’s diner. The chrome legged chairs had padded gold vinyl seats.

There was a door to the left of the fridge, a small room that connected the garage and the house. It was mostly a pantry, full of shelves that held a few things like light bulbs, some canned corn. A old padlock rested on the end of a shelf, out of place. It looked rusted. There was a chest freezer against the opposite wall. Trott opened it, wondering if Sips had ice cream. It was empty.

“There’s no food here, Sips.”

“There’s not. But I brought a few things and there’s a grocery store in town.” Sips stepped into the pantry, and looked at Trott staring into the empty freezer. “Leave that alone. Let me show you the bedroom.”

Trott followed Sips to the upper level. The banister was hung with loops of greenery and red ribbons edged in gold. A long hall ran across the upper level, and there was a small sitting area with a couch, a few chairs, bookshelves and a television. Sips ushered Trott to a half open door. The master bedroom was enormous. Trott thought his entire apartment might fit inside it. Sips pulled at the dark, golden curtains on the far wall, revealing more floor to ceiling glass. There was a sliding door, and a deck. Here they could see above the trees. Trott could see the wide lake better, the angles of the hills surrounding it.

“It’s not frozen,” Trott said with some surprise. "I sort of expected it to be."

“No, it hasn’t been cold long enough.” Sips shrugged. “Give it a few weeks.”

Trott turned back to the bedroom. There was only one painting here, one of Smith’s. It was enormous, several feet long and at least three feet tall. It hung over the bed, a giant swath of layered colors that blurred into each other. It was a bit like a rainbow though all the colors were wrong, reversed. The bed was huge, with a burnished wooden headboard. Matching bedside tables each had a small brass lamp with a green shade. A television perched on the dresser, beside the door to the bathroom.

Sips picked him up, causing Trott to yelp. He carried Trott to the bed and tossed him down, falling down beside him. The mattress was springy, clearly brand new, and Trott bounced slightly. They rolled over on the enormous bed on the soft white bedspread, as fluffy and pristine as a luxury hotel.

“What do you think? You like it?”

“It’s very nice.” Trott twined his hand with Sips.

“I’m so glad I get you all to myself out here.” Sips rolled over on top of him, kissing his cheeks, his lips, his neck.

“We should get our stuff out of the car,” Trott whispered between kisses. “Before we forget about it. Maybe put it in the garage?”

“Alright, alright.” Sips climbed off him, and Trott scooted to the edge of the bed. He let Sips pull him to his feet, and they walked to the stairs holding hands. It felt absurdly domestic, like kids playing at house when the parents were gone. He glanced down the hall. It looked like there was another bathroom on the other side, and a guest bedroom. Only one door was shut.

“What’s the room at the end of the hall?” Trott asked.

“Oh that was Smith’s room.” Sips shrugged. “Nothing exciting in there. He left a few things, so leave it alone. He’s really touchy about his privacy. Artists.” Sips said the last word with a roll of his eyes.

“Okay.” Trott followed Sips downstairs, questions churning in his mind. He knew Smith had stayed out here, to avoid the press and the attention. But he’d stayed out here enough that one room was his room? Not just a guest room, but Smith’s room. Trott couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at the closed door, wondering what was on the other side.

 

* * *

 

Against the window, the Christmas tree stood in all its glittering majesty. The fire crackled, the pleasant warmth permeating the living room. Trott lay on the sofa in a ridiculous outfit he’d purchased for the trip, feet propped up on the arm. It was a strapless little dress, red velveteen trimmed with fake with fur at the top and the hem. He had on a pair of pair of red and white striped thigh highs. They didn’t do a lot to keep him warm but at least you couldn’t see the goosebumps. His little fluffy slippers helped, as did the fire.

Trott thought back to the last time he’d sat in front of a fire. It was more than a decade ago, in the little house his parents presumably still lived in. Their fireplace was made of bricks, rough and darkened with years of soot. The sofa in the living room was ancient, worn down and covered with crocheted blankets to cover the mended upholstery and the worn patches. The cushion were worn down. He rubbed his hand on the smooth, golden fabric of the sofa, thinking that it felt like no one had ever sat on it before.

Trott tilted his head, watching Sips come down the stairs in black sweat pants and a red sweater. He was carrying a duffel bag, which he dropped on the floor before he leaned over the end of the sofa.

“The only thing that would make this more perfect is fucking you right here,” Sips said. His lips brushed Trott’s neck.

“Well then.” Trott smiled up at him, licking his lips to taste his vanilla lip gloss.

When Sips pulled the red leather mask out of his bag, Trott froze.

“No, Sips, not tonight.” Trott shook his head as Sips settled next to him.

“But you look so beautiful wearing it.” Sips kissed his forehead. “There’s something unbearably sexy about it.”

“About me not being able to talk?”

“About how all your communication happens through your eyes.” Sips smiled, one hand cupping Trott’s face. “They’re so rich, and deep.”

“Please, I don’t-”

“For me? As a present?” Sips persuaded. Trott shivered, clinging to Sips. There was no rational reason for him to object.

“Fine,” Trott agreed in a faint voice. “Just not too long, okay? I don’t like not being able to breathe.”

Sips’ hands combed his hair back, and he pushed the gag into Trott’s mouth. Gently, he smoothed the leather around Trott’s jaw and his throat before lacing it up tightly against the back of his neck. Trott tried to steady his breathing.

“See, you can breathe. It’s all in your head, Trott. Trust me.”

Sips cuffed his hands in front of him. Then, he pulled out a length of rope. Trott’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t help the sound he made. It was muffled by the leather gag.

“Don’t worry, princess, this will be comfortable.” Sips would the rope around his upper arms and his body. It was thick, and satiny smooth. Sips was methodical about making it tight and even. After a few minutes, Trott was wrapped in a layer of heavy rope that covered most of his upper arms and chest. His hands sat uselessly in his lap.

“You look amazing,” Sips murmured. Trott tried to look skeptical. He felt like someone out of a comic book, all tied up and waiting for the hero to burst in with a rescue. He wondered if that’s what this was all about. Maybe Sips just had a weird hang up from something he jerked off to as a teenager.

His hands stroked Trott’s thighs, pushing up the hem of his little Santa dress. Trott leaned back in the couch, lifting his hips so Sips could tug down the red lace panties he wore. Sips’ warm breath tickled his thighs as he parted Trott’s legs, kissing him. His lips pressed against Trott’s slowly swelling erection, causing him to moan. Sips mouthed at his cock, and the pleasure was almost enough to make Trott forget about the helplessness of being tied up and cuffed. He bit at the gag, moaning softly.

Trott felt Sips fasten something around his ankle, and then the other one. When he tried to move his feet, he realized he was cuffed to a bar. His legs were held spread open. With a grunt, Sips hauled him up and turned him over so he was bent face down across the arm of the sofa. His dress was rucked up around his waist, his ass and legs bare. Trott could feel the warmth of the fire on the back of his thighs. The cushion was smooth and warm under his cheek. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his legs stretched out. Trott’s fingers curled into fists. His protests were muffled, indistinct. He had to swallow, the gag making saliva pool in his mouth.

“I wish you could see yourself like this, Trott, you look fantastic.” Sips hand squeezed his thigh. Then a slick finger pressed between his cheeks, seeking out his hole. Trott grunted as Sips slid his finger inside, moving slowly in and out. At least he used lube. At least it was slow. It wasn’t as bad as it could be, Trott told himself. It was way more kinky stuff than Trott really wanted. Everything will be fine, he told himself. He loves you and he likes this, so you can do it for him.

Sips bent down to get something else from the bag, and Trott heard the squish of more lube from the bottle. Something hard, and cold, pressed against him. He was reluctant to let Sips do this, but there wasn’t anyway to stop it now. Trott tried to relax. Everything will be fine, he repeated over and over. He isn’t going to hurt you.

The head of the dildo slipped inside, stretching him wide. Trott groaned. At least that was the worst, the rest felt smaller. But he quickly realized it was ribbed or ridged somehow as more of it slid inside him. Then Sips began to twist it as he thrust. The corkscrew motion of it was something both pleasurable and discomforting. Trott thrashed in his awkward position. Involuntarily, his legs kicked and tried to curl. But the bar holding them was pinned under one of Sips’ feet, trapping him. Trott cried out again and again, choking behind the gag. But his protests were just muffled moans.

It seemed to go on forever. Trott tried to will himself to stop fighting, but the dildo would hit some tender spot and his nerves would seize and his entire body would spasm. Sips kept his other hand on Trott’s back, sometimes holding him in place.

When Sips finally pulled it out, Trott sobbed in relief.

“You look nice and ready,” Sips commented. He was breathing hard, as if he’d been the one taking it up the ass. He squeezed Trott’s balls, making him groan.

Trott didn’t want to be so turned on, but his body was responding to Sips’ handling. It made Trott slightly ashamed. He didn’t want to like this so much. It scared him to be so helpless, even if the things Sips did felt good.

Sips’ first thrust knocked the breath out of him. His thighs pressed heavily on Trott’s legs, holding him against the sofa. The pressure of his cock inside seemed like it was squeezing everything in him into his chest. Trott groaned. As the thrusts continued, Trott’s breathing grew more labored. It was hard enough, only able to really get air from his nose. Sparks started to appear in his vision, even with his eyes closed. Trott felt dizzy, vaguely frightened that he was going to suffocate. The sound of Sips grunting, the slap of his flesh against Trott’s skin, and the pounding of his heartbeat were all he could hear.

Trott bucked as Sips’ thrusts hit some tender spot inside, making him shake. Sips laughed, and tried to keep doing it, gripping Trott’s hips with both hands. Overstimulated and half choked, Trott came with a whimper. Sips did as well, shortly after. He drove himself a final few times into Trott before his movements slowed to a stop.

He could feel the wet trickle down the inside of his thigh. Trott ached all over, and still couldn’t breathe. It was long minutes before Sips pulled him up so he could sit on the sofa. Trott closed his eyes, hardly paying attention as Sips kissed his sweaty forehead.

“My beautiful princess,” Sips murmured. Trott wanted to cry. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his tears to stay inside. It was absurd to cry when your boyfriend was fucking you in front of the fire at Christmas. Happy tears, he told himself. You’re crying because you’re so happy.

It was another several minutes before Sips untied him. Trott wanted to claw at the gag once Sips released his hands and arms. But he felt limp and worn out. Sips left it on and Trott didn’t try to take it off.

“You did so wonderfully.” Sips kissed him, pulling him into an embrace. One hand rubbed up and down Trott’s back. Trott rested his head on Sips’ shoulder and watched the flickering light of the fire on the wall.

“I love you,” Sips murmured. There was a moment of silence. “Even if you did come on my sofa.”

Trott hummed, unsure if Sips was being serious.

“Don’t worry, princess, I won’t make you clean it up.” Sips sounded so amused, so pleased with himself. Trott hummed again, pressing himself a little closer. He hoped Sips would take the gag off soon.

 

* * *

 

The next morning they are breakfast in the little kitchen nook, croissants and coffee Sips had brought from the City. It was so quiet. Overnight a fresh dusting of snow had covered the ground, making everything white and pristine. The silence was overwhelming when their conversation paused. Sips wasn’t much for talking before he had at least two cups of coffee.

Sips picked up the phone on the counter, and frowned. He slammed it back down. Trott jumped, startled by the loud noise. He curled one leg under himself in the chair. He wore his red jumpsuit, one of his favorite winter outfits because it was lined and warm. Sips had said it would be just the two of them, but Trott had made sure he packed nice clothes all the same. He could throw on a belt and a blazer, and be party ready in this once he switched his makeup.

“Phone’s out,” Sips grumbled. He looked outside, at the grey sky and the fresh snow with a dismayed expression. “Guess I’m driving into town.”

“Really, do you have to?”

“Well it isn’t magically going to fix itself and I can’t exactly call anyone to do that on account of the phone being dead.” Sips stomped off to get his coat. Trott took a breath and reminded himself Sips was moody in the mornings.

Instead of brooding, Trott cleaned up the cups and plates from their breakfast. The water from the tap was frigid. It stung his fingers but the cold was soothing on the marks on his wrists from the cuffs. He hoped they wouldn't bruise too badly. He needed to buy more concealer, there was only a bit left in the tube.

“Right, I’ll be back probably in an hour or two. I’m going to pick up a few things, and I gotta make sure they know I want the driveway plowed too.” Sips pulled on his boots, and grabbed his keys off the hook by the kitchen door.

“You don’t want me to come with you?” Trott wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “I can throw on my coat.”

“Nah, it won’t take long.” Sips kissed Trott’s hair. “I’ll be careful.”

“Drive slow,” Trott said. He hugged Sips.

He watched as Sips slowly backed the car out of the garage and drove down the long driveway. The tires left fresh tracks, dark lines leading away.

The house felt empty with just him, and Trott shivered more from unease than cold. He hadn’t been so far from another person in years. Even in the city when he was alone at home, there were neighbors, people on the street. Nothing was like this isolation. The nearest house was miles away, the tiny town a half hour down the winding roads. He was surrounded by trees, and the cold waters of the lake. The silence, especially now that the snow had stopped falling, was overwhelming. Trott wanted to scream for a moment, but his voice felt too small. If he shouted, no one would hear. Maybe Sips liked all this isolation, coming from the city. For him it was an exotic reprieve. Trott preferred the comforting background noise, the hum of life moving all around.

He wandered the house, exploring it in the light of day. It surprised him that there was very little art. In the living room a large landscape in a heavy frame, muted colors and gold, nothing Trott recognized. The painting of the deer near the front door was similarly unremarkable. Trott wondered where Sips could have possibly bought those pictures. Maybe an estate sale. A calendar hung in the kitchen beside the fridge, the months displayed under a picture of the lake and the number of the local grocery. There was none of the sort of work hanging in Sips’ home in the City. It was strangely plain, and unremarkable. Trott thought no one would guess this was the home of a man who ran one of the most influential art galleries in the City. Maybe Sips just hadn’t spent enough time out here to decorate. Or he didn’t want to leave valuable things here, when the house must be empty so often.

Trott wandered upstairs. Unable to resist his curiosity, he tried the door to Smith’s room. It was locked. Trott twisted the brass knob back and forth. He couldn’t help but press his ear to door, listening for a long moment. At the end of the hall was a small window, looking out on the trees covered in snow. Another wreath of holly and pine hung there, decorated with gold ribbon.

In the master bedroom, Trott grabbed his coat and put on his boots. He stepped out the sliding glass door onto the deck. There was a view that would be stunning in nicer weather, of the dark hill covered with trees and the lake. From here he could see the path between the trees that led down to the lake. There was a boathouse and dock jutting out into the dark water, just barely visible between the branches. Sips had mentioned off hand taking the boat out during the summer.

His boots shoes crunched on the snow, and bits of it drifted between gaps in the boards. Trott turned back to look at the house. The wall of glass extended all along the deck. The master bedroom as well as the en suite bathroom had brilliant views of the lake. Trott had looked out at it just that morning, the view fogging over in the hot shower. He idly wondered who had to come out and clean all these windows.

Trott stepped closer to the glass, noticing the other half of the glass wall was curtained. Was that all Smith’s room? There was another door at the far end of the deck. Curious, Trott walked to it. It must be the locked room. Trott stood there for a moment, wondering. He had the brief impulse to try to get inside, thinking perhaps Smith was just hiding in there painting. This entire dumb mystery could be solved. He could see Smith, and then tell Ross everything was fine. He could explain that he’d never meant to be trouble between Sips and Smith.

Trott put his hand on the door. To his immense surprise, it slid open easily with a squeak. The curtain rustled.

“Hello?” Trott called out, feeling foolish. Silence. Immense, oppressive silence.

He stepped into the room, darkened by the pulled curtains. It smelled a bit stale, like old cigarette smoke. Trott tugged one of the curtains, pulling it aside to let in the light. His breath caught. Cold wind blew in the open door.

The pale light illuminated the large bedroom. A bed, stripped of its blankets and only covered by a sheet, stood against the opposite wall. It looked out of place in this house, an enormous four poster bed with an elaborate trellis headboard. There were two bedside tables, but only one lamp. A low dresser stood against a wall, and there was a small boombox sitting on it.

Canvases were stacked around the room, leaning against the walls and the dresser. Most of them were turned to face the wall, only their blank backs visible. They were all sizes, from large ones nearly as tall as Trott to smaller ones only a foot tall. The stacks were deep, dozens and dozens of paintings.

If it was all Smith’s work, it was a fortune. It was a museum.

Trott hesitantly walked towards one after shutting the sliding glass door. He leaned the canvas back. The vivid colors on the other side were just like the paintings from Smith’s latest show. Bright splashes of color, geometric lines blurring into swathes of paint.

Trott looked at another one, a smaller canvas. At first it looked much like the other paintings, drifts of color. But there were delicate black lines traced over the painting. He stared, trying to decipher them. They were not regular, but they didn’t look entirely random. Trott turned over several more of the smaller pieces. They were all like this, the black lines almost invisible until he looked closer. He sat on the floor and spread several of the paintings out around him. As he looked at them, he realized the colors lined up unexpectedly. Trott shifted the canvases, matching edges like he was doing a jigsaw puzzle. He had to hunt for another stack of the small canvases to find the pieces missing in the pattern.

When he finally stepped back, he realized what the lines were. Trott stared, surprised and puzzled. There was an enormous map of Indiana across the two dozen canvases. The black lines were roads, highways and the smaller farm to market roads that threaded through the rural countryside.

He picked up a piece, the one where his own hometown would be. Curious, his mind churning, Trott stepped closer to the window to look at it in the light. It was there he realized the black lines were not just black. They were a dark, rusty color. Like dried blood. It made him shiver.

Trott stood there, holding the painting. He wondered why these were here. Why Smith painted them in the first place. Where he was. What any of this meant.

Trott set the painting back down with the rest. He stepped around the map, walking to the doors that must lead into a bathroom and closet. It was a large room, much like the master bath next door. An enormous soaking tub, a walk in shower, the skylight overhead illuminating the room. The closet door was ajar. Feeling a sense of trepidation, Trott crept forward and pushed it open. It was dim inside, even when Trott pulled the cord on the overhead light bulb. It flickered occasionally.

There were more canvases stacked in the closet. But these looked unfinished. Some only had a brief bit of color, sketch lines. One was just black bars painted, the edges unsteady as if Smith’s hand had been shaking.

But there was nothing personal in here either. No clothes. Trott picked up another canvas, this one blank except for one green splash. The outline of a lizard was traced on it in pencil.

“Where are you, Alex Smith? What is going on?” Trott sighed. He held the canvas in one hand, his fingers curled against the wood frame underneath. They brushed something, and Trott turned the painting around.

A small leather journal was wedged between the frame and the canvas. Trott pulled it out carefully. He put the painting back in the stack, and carried the journal into the bathroom to see it better.

It was a dark brown leather, scuffed and stained. It felt soft in Trott’s hands. He opened it, seeing page after page of quick, looping handwriting. It was a diary. Trott felt a giddy strange sensation. He knew he absolutely should not be going through Smith’s things but he could not help himself.

Something was wedged halfway through. Trott flipped the pages, and a handful of polaroid pictures fell out. He knelt on the tile to pick them up. The first one was Smith lounging against the back of a car in the sunlight. He wore Ray-Bans, his hair growing out long enough to curl. His grin was lazy, teasing. He wore a black tank top and jeans, leaning back on his hands with a look that invited you to come closer. There was a tattoo on his left arm but Trott couldn’t quite make out what it was.

The next picture was Smith on the deck of the lake house. He wore just jeans this time, and his arms were folded behind his head. From the side, his profile was sharp against the blue sky.

Another picture of Smith, this time smoking and propped on elbow. His eyes were closed.

The next picture made Trott shiver. It was the bed in the next room. There was a man tied face down on it, naked. His arms and legs were spread eagled, fastened with ropes. There were marks, like he’d been beaten with a belt. Some were already bruised.

Trott could just see the tattoo on his arm. It was a lizard or maybe a dragon curled around his upper arm and shoulder.

With shaking hands he picked up the last polaroid. This one showed Smith kneeling, looking up at the camera. His arms were folded behind his back. His eyes were shockingly wide, blue and staring. But what made Trott shudder was the gag. It was the same red leather gag Sips had put on him after the Ball. It covered Smith’s mouth and neck.

He wondered how much Smith screamed. How many times Sips made him wear it.

Shuddering, Trott picked up the polaroids and stuffed them back in the diary. He put the entire thing in the inner pocket of his coat. Feeling a bit sick, he walked back into the bedroom full of paintings. He started to gather up the small canvases with their mysterious map when something made him pause.

It was the sound of a car. Sips was back already, coming up the driveway.

Panicking, Trott tried to hurriedly pile the canvases where he found them. He raced around the room, trying to remember exactly how everything looked. He shut the bathroom door. Then he dashed back to the sliding door, pulling at the curtains. He shut the door, and leaned his head against the glass for a moment.

Looking down, Trott realized his footprints went through the snow right to the door.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Trott panicked. He didn’t want Sips to know he’d seen the paintings. He didn’t want Sips to know he’d found the polaroids, or that he knew something was very wrong, or that he knew Sips had lied to him about sleeping with Smith.Trott glanced around frantically. On the other side of the deck was a push broom, probably for moving the leaves away in the fall. Trott grabbed it and began frantically sweeping the deck, starting with the side by the locked bedroom. He brushed the snow off the edge of the deck, knowing it would drift down onto the ground floor patio. He heard the slam of the car door. His heart raced. Sips would be inside in a moment, and be looking for him. Trott swept harder, clearing the deck as fast as he could. Snow drifted and spun behind him, all around.

“Trott?” Sips stuck his head out the sliding glass door. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d clear off the deck, so it didn’t get icy,” Trott panted. “In case we came out here. You know, have hot chocolate and look at the stars. That kind of thing. I bet you can see so many stars here, right? Without the city lights?” Trott knew he was babbling. He glanced around at the deck, only a few bits of snow remaining. He tried to smile, and brushed at the snow on the railing.

“Should have made you shovel the driveway,” Sips said, looking around. “Good work.”

“Well,” Trott laughed, trying to catch his breath. “If you want me to.” He wiped a hand over his face. His fingers ached from the cold, and he thought he should have worn gloves. His fingerprints were all over the place now. The diary was like a burning coal in his pocket.

“We should be fine though, the plow guy knows to come out. And I got some groceries, come downstairs.”

“Sounds good! Let me just wash my face real quick.” Trott smiled, touched Sips’ arm as he slipped back inside.

In the bathroom, Trott shrugged off his coat. He could hear Sips heading downstairs. He pulled out the diary. He had to hide it. He had to hide it somewhere Sips had no reason to look. Somewhere safe.

Trott dumped all his makeup on the counter, and stuffed the diary in the bottom of the case. Then he carefully swept everything back in, making sure it was completely covered. He dunked his face under the water repeatedly until he could master his expression and his lips stopped trembling.

_Everything is fine_ , he told himself. _He loves you. Everything will be okay._ Very carefully, he picked up the Rosebud lipstick and began painting his face.

 

* * *

 

Trott knew he had to just not think about what he’d seen in the locked bedroom. So he forced himself to live entirely in the moment, to not think too deeply about anything else. He managed to push down all the storm of emotions into a corner of his brain, pretending that it was a bad dream. _Everything was fine_ , he repeated. _Sips loves you_.

There was no way to call Kim to ask for her advice. Trott didn’t want to make a long distance call Sips would find on his bill, and there was no way he could do it without Sips hearing him. 

It helped that the next couple days were idyllic. Despite the cold, the clouds would part and allow pale winter sun to brighten the landscape. Fresh white snow glittered in the green pines and the bare branches, down to the cold grey blue lake. They walked down to the dock where the wind blew little waves across the surface. It was so cold, and the snow crunched underfoot. Sips kissed him, holding Trott’s face with both his hands.

That night, Sips drove them into a nearby town for dinner. They ate in a low ceilinged room, with dark beams, plastered walls and a giant stone fireplace to warm the dining room. A white haired old man in tweed pants and a black button down shirt brought their meals and opened the bottle of wine Sips brought along. It was a hearty meal, schnitzels and spaetzle and red cabbage. The dessert was an apple strudel with a big dollop of whipped cream. Trott found it all heavenly. He ate until he was stuffed. The wine made him feel like he was floating.

Sips opened the sunroof on the drive home. The warmth of the car heater and the icy draft from the open window was pleasant. Trott drowsed in his seat, wrapped in his coat and gloves. Sips held the wheel in one hand, and put his other on Trott’s knee. Trott rolled his head to the side, smiling. He was drowsy and happy. It just felt perfect, from the moonlight gleaming on the snow and the warmth of the car, to the smile on Sips’ face when he glanced over.

_Everything is fine_ , he thought. _It was all a bad dream. You misunderstood. He loves you. Everything will be okay._

 

* * *

 

On Christmas eve, it snowed off and on all day. Trott watched the driveway disappear under the fresh layer of white until the yard was just a featureless plain. He went out the bedroom door onto the deck, and stared up into the sky. It made him feel a bit dizzy, as if he was falling upwards.

He glanced over his shoulder at the house. His eyes strayed to the curtained and shadowed glass of Smith’s bedroom. Trott shuddered, feeling very bleak and guilty for a moment. He wondered where Smith was right now, if he was also watching the snow and thinking about this place.

If he kept brooding about this, Sips would know something was up. Trott did not know what he would do if he found out that Trott went into Smith’s room. It made his stomach lurch with anxiety, a dreadful shaky feeling. Trott turned back to the railing, trying to control the nervous trembling in his body. Without a coat, it was just too cold to be out here. His hands were going numb, resting in the fresh snow on top of the wooden railing. Snow fell on his hair, his shoulders, stinging his ears. Trott took a deep breath. The frigid air hurt in his lungs, but he forced himself to breathe in and out slowly.

Carefully, Trott turned so his back was towards the dark end of the deck. He slipped back inside the sliding door and into the bathroom. He shook the snowflakes that clung to his hair away, wiping himself down with a towel.

Downstairs he could hear Sips singing to himself as he opened a bottle of wine. They were going to watch whatever cheesy holiday movies were on television, eat crackers and cheese and slices of summer sausage and gingerbread men until they fell asleep. It would be cozy, romantic, cheerful.

“Everything will be okay,” he said quietly to the mirror.

 

* * *

 

Christmas morning was a slow, simple one. They stayed in bed, drowsy and cuddled up together until Sips decided he needed coffee. The morning sunlight was bright through the windows, reflecting off the snow. Sips built a fire, the heat pleasant on Trott’s back. He was chilly in his purple silk nightgown, another extravagance for the trip. It was long, lace adorning the top, and came with a matching robe. It made Trott feel very decadent and strangely grown up. He’d never spent Christmas morning with a man, wearing a fancy nightgown, slightly hungover from all the wine he drank the night before.

They traded presents beside the tree. Trott had wrapped his in shiny metallic red paper. Sips’ gift was wrapped in creamy white, with a small ribbon bow. Sips ripped eagerly into his gift.

“Aww Trott, that was sweet of you. You didn’t have to get me anything.” Sips beamed at the concert tickets in the shallow box. “Box seats! Wow!”

“I had a little help getting them,” Trott demurred. He glowed, so pleased he’d chosen a good gift.

“Still, that’s great. I can’t wait. Bon Jovi is awesome.” Sips leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.

Trott picked up his present, holding the narrow box in both hands. He tried to carefully unfasten the ribbon, not wanting to tear any of it. Sips watched him with amusement. Inside was another box, this one a dark blue velvet.

“Well go on, open it already,” Sips said impatiently.

Carefully, Trott pushed the lid back with his thumb. Nestled in the white satin was a bracelet. Rectangular cut orange gems were set between the solid gold links. Each stone was polished and gleaming, the light running through their perfect clear centers. Trott opened his mouth, speechless.

“Let me put it on you.” Sips took the box from him, and gripped Trott’s left wrist. The bracelet was cool and heavy on his skin. Sips fastened the clasp, and held his arm.

“They’re citrines. I thought you would like them. Something a little different.”

“It’s beautiful,” Trott said. “Thank you.”

“And you like bracelets, so now you have one that will always make you think of me.”

“It’s… Sips, this is too much, too nice.”

“It’s perfect for you, princess.” Sips leaned in and kissed his temple. “I want you to be beautiful. No one else will have something like this on.”

The heavy bracelet sat on his wrist, and for a moment Trott remembered the feel of the handcuffs. But it was just wide enough to cover the purple  bruise on the outside edge of his wrist. Trott smiled at Sips, hoping he looked grateful and happy enough. He was happy. He didn’t want Sips to think otherwise.

“Thank you…” Trott touched one of the stones, watching it catch the light.

“I love you,” Sips murmured.

“I love you, too.” Trott looked up at him, feeling as if this was the happiest moment he’d ever experienced.

Sips held his other wrist and pulled him in close. He laced his fingers through Trott’s hand, holding it between them. He unfastened the belt of his robe. Underneath the plush robe, Sips was naked and hard.

“My beautiful princess.” He pushed Trott back on the rug until he was on top of him. Pinned under Sips, Trott resisted the urge to struggle. Sips liked it better when he was compliant and eager to please. Instead he let Sips pull up his nightgown, baring his legs. His hands moved underneath to grip Trott’s ass, and Trott gasped for breath as Sips’ weight crushed him to the floor.

“Did you do what I asked you to do?” Sips’ breath was hot on the side of his face.

“Yes.” Trott had stretched himself after his shower this morning, using a generous amount of lube and the toy Sips provided. The plug was still there, wedged inside him. Waiting for Sips. It was slightly uncomfortable but not onerous. It seemed like an easy request to humor, and Trott liked it much better than the gag.

“I like you ready for me.” Sips shifted, reaching between Trott’s cheeks to nudge the flared base. Trott bit his lip to stifle the sound threatening to come out of him. Sips pulled the toy out, and Trott gasped at the sudden movement. He felt a brief flare of pain. Then just as quickly Sips was back down on top of him, pulling his hips up to thrust inside him.

“My princess,” Sips groaned. “You love me, don’t you baby?”

“Yes,” Trott gasped. “I love you.”

Sips pulled out, and then thrust back in, his hips moving heavily. Trott bent his knees, his feet barely touching the carpet beneath them. Sips fucked him hard, leaving him breathless.

“You belong to me,” Sips said. “All mine.”

He moved a hand to Trott’s head, then down to his neck. Sips’ fingers pressed under his jaw, squeezing and cutting off his breath. Trott could barely force out a sound, his hand clutching at Sip’s bicep. The firelight reflected in the citrines, and Trott started to see sparks in his vision. A dull panic built in the back of his head.

Sips came with a groan, shuddering as he thrust into Trott. His grip slackened just as Trott began to fear passing out. Trott made a strangled sound beneath Sips, still struggling to breathe with his weight bearing Trott into the floor.

Gasping, Trott let his head roll to the side. His eyes watered, and his throat ached. The fire burned brightly, the Christmas tree glimmered with light and color. It all blurred together.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” Sips kissed his temple before climbing off him. “Lets have some breakfast, I’m starving.”

It took Trott a few shuddering breaths to pull himself together. He listened to Sips singing something off key as he turned on the coffee maker and opened the fridge.

“You want pancakes?” Sips called out. He only offered to make pancakes when he was feeling generous and pleased. It was a good sign. _He loves you. Everything is fine._

“Sure.” Trott hoped he sounded normal as pulled his nightgown down. “Just gonna wash up real quick.” He stumbled to the bathroom and pulled the door shut. The bracelet felt heavy on his wrist, holding him down. Avoiding the mirror over the sink, Trott hiked up his nightgown to wipe himself clean. He told himself he was being crazy, to be so upset like this. Sips just gave him a beautiful gift, said he loved him and here Trott was trying not to cry or scream in the bathroom while Sips made breakfast. It was crazy.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling of complete fear that overwhelmed him when Sips choked him.

_He loves you. Everything will be okay._

 


	16. Chapter 16

Once again, his apartment smelled like rot and stale air. It was chilly with the heat turned down so low. Trott let his bag fall to the floor and kicked his door shut. Slowly he slid all the locks closed, feeling vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Surrounded by people in the City, he felt completely alone.

His answering machine light blinked. The only two messages were from Kim. One from Christmas day, and another letting him know she would be out of town with the family for a few days. The Nano would be closed until January.

It was freezing outside, the sill crusted with snow and ice, but Trott opened the window anyways. He tossed the dead flowers into the trash. The slimy water made him gag and he tried not breathe as he poured it down the sink. Only the poinsettia seemed fine, the red leaves still bright and soft. Trott gave it a mug of water, and pulled a cherry Coke out of the fridge. Shivering in the cold air, he unpacked his bag. Trott left his makeup case sitting on his bed while he washed his nightgowns and underwear in the tub by hand. The rest of his laundry he stuffed in a bag to take to the cleaners down the street. Finally, he cranked up the heat and closed the window. Melted snow puddled on the floor and Trott mopped it up with the towel that cushioned his knees during the laundry marathon.

Trott showered, and smoothed moisturizer all over his face. In his oldest sweatpants and a tshirt so thin it was almost tissue paper, he looked unglamourous. It was a bit of a relief. He’d spent the days with Sips always on, always made up, always pretty and accommodating. Even when they relaxed and Sips didn’t shave for a couple days, Trott made sure he did.

The diary was still in the bottom of his makeup bag. For a long time, he held it in his lap wondering what he should do. All the questions he’d deliberately repressed at the lake house roared in his head. Why had Smith left it behind? Why had he left all those paintings in Sips’ house? Where was he? What happened with him and Sips? Why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?

It was dark outside, the wind whipping past the building with a droning sound. Trott curled up on the sofa, blankets tucked around him. The lamplight gave everything a golden, familiar glow. He pulled out the polaroids and looked at the one of Smith smiling in the sunshine. He was gorgeous. Something twisted in Trott’s gut. He didn’t look at the others. He turned on the television for background noise, leaving it on some talk show. It was probably terrible to read someone’s diary like this, but Trott had too many questions and nowhere else to get answers. The entries were not regular, and not all of them were dated. Sometimes there were just little doodles, stick figure cartoons. Some of the pages were smudged with paint, or wrinkled like Smith had spilled something on them. He flipped back to the beginning. It started in December 1984.

 

From Smith’s Diary:

 

_Who carries around a completely blank journal with a fancy leather cover? An asshole who deserves to get his bag stolen. Probably shouldn’t have but that guy was asking for it. What a prick. Going on and on about his fucking professor and theory and whatever, like being a college boy makes him special. Slumming it down here with the working people. Rich kid shoes, rich kid clean, stupid fucking new clothes. They were all so drunk it was easy to grab his backpack up off the floor behind them and walk right out. Nobody stopped me. It’s just a backpack, not like there aren’t five million black backpacks in this city. There were a couple books that didn’t even look read, a spiral notebook I can use to draw ideas, some trash. No wallet sadly. A walkman though! I got all your stuff, rich boy, and fuck you I’m writing with my filthy hands in your nice clean book. _

 

_I hate everything. I don't but I do._

 

_New place, new year, new me. That’s why I have this dumb diary. It’s better and worse here. I don’t have to share a crappy roach hole with a bunch of junkies who steal my shit. I can lock the door. Downside - the plumbing sucks, I don’t have a bath tub. The power is extension cords. But it’s mine. Feels good. There are some other people here. Guy named Simon showed me the place. He offered me this spot when I told him I was a part time painter and a whore. It’s on the top floor with big windows all across the wall. Very bright in the morning but that is okay. I actually like it when I’m not hungover. There’s some other spaces across from me. Simon lives downstairs on the ground floor, just kind of lurks around and scares off anyone looking to camp out. Don’t think he owns this place like he said but maybe he’s been squatting here so long it doesn’t matter._

 

_Met my neighbor - Tracey. I was out there wondering if I had it in me to work the street here - it’s different from the last place. Lot more guys dressed as girls. That’s Tracey, except she’s not just dressing like that to make money. It’s really her thing - she’s even had her tits done. They’re impressive. Tracey showed me where to go to find the johns who like guys. I think I’m getting old for this though. Most of these guys don’t even look legal, they’re all junkie skinny. Tracey says she could help me get a regular job at one of the bars but I don’t want to have to be somewhere on time._

 

_Fucking miserable rain, so Tracey and I hung out up here. She’s fucking hilarious. I wish I’d met her when I first got to the City. Showed her how I was painting up the walls with these pieces of scrap wood I found. She liked them. She didn’t act like I was trying to be some asshole at least. Maybe I’ll show her some of the stuff I saved when I moved. That asshole Ethan pissed on a bunch of my shit so I’ve only got a few. But the sketchbooks are okay. I need to make some money if I want anything to work with._

 

_I picked up a guy tonight who was rough. I am gonna have bruises, and my ass feels like someone shoved a pineapple in there. But I made almost two hundred. Whiskey and paint here I come._

 

_Same guy came round again. At first I told him to fuck off, that being all bruised up made work harder.. But he offered double and to be more careful. Tracey says I’m stupid and greedy but fuck it. Money is money. I can drink and we even went out to eat at that little Chinese place she likes so much. ~~I really like her.~~  
_

 

_Accidentally spilled my drink all over this painting I was doing but it kinda looks good?_

 

_The power went out again, but it came back. I wonder where all those cords go. Maybe they run all the way back to Indiana. I keep dreaming about it. Dunno if that means I need to drink more or less to make it stop._

 

_Saving all my empties. Gonna call 100 Bottles of Whiskey on the Wall._

 

_She’s not my girlfriend but maybe she’s the closest friend I’ve had in a long time. We don’t fuck because that’s work. But she comes over and hangs out and it’s just cool. She doesn’t get high here but sometimes she’s high when she comes over. I told her that was bullshit. She said I didn’t know what it was like and that I wasn’t any better. She’s right._

 

_Woke up hungover as fuck. Broke a bottle and there’s a fucking mess. ~~Sometimes I hate this so much.~~ _

 

_I brought that regular guy to my place. Told him he could spend the $20 on the motel room on me and that it’d be cleaner. He looked pretty skeptical but he came along anyways. I guess he figured since he didn’t murder me I wasn’t going to murder him. Tracey would probably say that’s dumb. He’s nice though - at least when he’s not marking me up. We laid there and smoked for awhile and he asked about my paintings. Turns out the guy is really into art._

 

_He gave me a bunch of cash, and took me to the art store. The guy just bought all the paint I wanted. It was crazy. I sucked his dick for it but still. So much paint. New colors!  
_

 

_Turns out that regular guy who’s been coming round is loaded. ~~I could guess but it is more than I thought.~~ He told me to call him Sips which is dumb but I guess when you’re rich you can do whatever dumb shit you want. He has a fancy place, this nice apartment that looks like something out of a movie. He took me home with him, let me stay the night. It was probably risky to go with him, Tracey says I could have gotten myself killed. She’s always saying that. But I could take him in a fight. He slept late so I got up and wandered around his place. There’s a lot of paintings hanging up. But mostly I just wanted to use his fancy shower. I’d forgotten how nice a really good shower is. The water here is never hot. I’d fuck him just to get to use the shower. _

 

_page torn out_

 

_Sips says he’s gonna get me a show. They’ll hang my paintings up and sell them. Can’t imagine that is gonna work but whatever. Guess I’ll give it a shot. It’s not like I’m a real artist or anything._

_It feels nice to have someone looking out for me. It felt a little weird, like a sugar daddy thing, but I guess that isn’t so bad. He’s not around all the time. I get the feeling he’d like me to come live with him but I don’t want to do that. I like having my own space. Besides, he's weird about Tracey. I think he would fuck her but he's weird about it. Talking shit about how anyone would know she's a man like that fucking matters. Asshole.  
_

 

_Sips said a bunch of the paintings sold. He said he’s started a bank account for me, to hold all the checks. He seemed to not believe Alex Smith was my real name. Not having a social security card or a birth certificate or anything is a problem. Whatever. I told him that I’d sign the checks over so he could just cash them for me._

_I used some of the cash he gave me to give to Tracey, so she could pay off her dealer and he’d leave her alone. I didn’t tell her where I got it. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve got money here. So much fucking money jesus tittyfucking christ what am I gonna do with this?? _

 

_Doing that interview with the paper was a mistake. Someone’s gonna see it and everything here will go to shit. Kinda worried someone will try to rob me. I wonder if Tom might see it, wherever he is. FUCK_

 

_Sips is pissed. He walked in on me blowing a guy and completely lost his shit. Says I don’t have to do that, I’ve got him. I told him he didn’t own me, and I’d do what I want. I’ve been a hooker longer than I’ve been a painter. Besides I don’t want people here to think I’m too good now. People will wonder if I don’t work and have cash._

 

_It’s weird because I just started painting because I was angry. The rehab guy from jail who tried to talk me into going to AA meetings said I needed an outlet for my feelings that wasn’t self destructive. I can remember that whole conversation, the light overhead, his stupid shirt. But if I have less to be angry about, am I still gonna paint? ~~Haha the joke is I'll never stop being angry haha fuck~~  
_

 

_It's 1986 now. I didn't think I would live this long._

 

_page covered in ink and paint, wrinkled and smelling faintly of alcohol, words indecipherable_

 

_I picked them out of the phone book because they had a logo next to their name, a little lighthouse. Took the subway all the way up to their offices, and offered to pay in cash. They said it wouldn’t be hard. Especially because I had Tom’s birthday, and the names of the people who adopted him. Told them the whole story, about us being together in that shitty foster home and everything. I just want to know he’s okay._

_I was so angry that Tom got adopted and I didn’t, that I had to go back to another group home. My caseworker told me no one was going to adopt me when I was such a bastard, that I should be more like my brother and she was right. No one adopted me and I was a bastard. But what if something worse happened to him? I hope not. Fuck. I used to think maybe I was a bad person because I didn’t really miss my mom and I only missed Tom. She was hardly even there, and when she was she was a drunk. But he was more like family to me than anyone else. I mean, a half brother still counts right? It was wrong for them to split us up like that._

 

_Bad hangover, bad bad bad day._

 

_Tracey asked me about the bruises. ~~She didn’t believe me. Fuck it.~~ _

 

_This is ~~-lines scribbled out, covered over in layers of ink too dark and heavy to read through-~~ _

_I'll just get through. I always do._

 

_Ross says he has good news for me! I offered to pay his fee in blow jobs and he laughed like crazy. I like him. Said he couldn’t exactly put that down on his paperwork. Hell I’d probably blow him for free. He’s pretty good looking and he’s funny. I think he’d go for it if there wasn’t this business thing. Maybe when it is done._

 

_I spoke to Tom today on the phone. He’s in Boston - He went to university there, and he just graduated. I can’t believe Tom’s got a degree. He hated school. But he said it was just the fights he hated, the kids who picked on us for wearing old clothes or not having lunch. He’s coming to the City._

 

_Seeing Tom was everything. I haven’t felt this happy probably ever. He looks good. Said the people who adopted him were alright, they never locked him up or did anything shitty like the foster home. It was safe and apparently really boring but Tom spent all his time on school._

_I think he felt bad about us being split up like it was his fault. I tried to explain that it wasn’t, that I was just so crazy and couldn’t hold it together. I told him about running away from the group home, stealing his file from my caseworker’s office. I tried to find him, but they’d moved._

 

_Sips was so pissed I didn’t return his calls. Said I was busy. He thinks I’m painting. Told me not to drink so much and I told him to fuck off._

 

_I think I might move to Boston. Tom says I could come stay with him. We could share a big apartment, and I could paint. He says it might be easier for me to live there, come back to the city to sell work or maybe find a gallery in Boston. I wonder if Tracey would come too._

_I told him about the things I did. It was rough but I didn’t want there to be secrets. He wasn’t mad. He said he understood that sometimes people had to do things like suck dick to get money. He told me it didn’t make me a bad person to survive. Such a fucking relief._

 

_Sips is an asshole. I told him I wanted my money that I was going to stay with my brother and he blew up. What the fuck is his problem. He doesn’t own me._

 

_I can’t get access to the bank account because I don’t have any ID. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck. This is stupid. I’m a millionaire and I can’t get my own money. Sips says I can just come to him, but I don’t want to always be coming to him. Besides, he is getting weird. We got into a real fight and I almost hit him._

 

_Tracey’s been missing for days. I called the jail, but they didn’t have her. I’m worried. I hope she’s okay._

 

_Tom said he’d do some digging and try to get a copy of my birth certificate so we can get me a new ID. This is dumb. I hate doing this regular life shit. It is all a hassle._

 

_Sips took me to the lake, told me it was an apology. A real vacation. Celebrating all this new stuff he’s gonna put up in his gallery. He thinks it will sell out and make a ton of money. Which is great I guess. EXCEPT FOR THAT WHOLE BANK ID MESS_

_We had another fight though. Went to have the make up sex cause that usually calms him down and he beat me with a belt. I’ve got bruises from my shoulders to my knees. Guess I’m sunbathing on my stomach today._

 

_Being out here is weird. It is so fucking quiet. Sips doesn’t want me to paint out here because he doesn’t want a mess. All I want to do is get out, get my money, and see my brother again. I just want to start over. I don’t even care about the paintings._

 

_I’m stuck out here. Sips had the phone shut off, and it is so far from anything. I don’t know how to get home. He choked me so hard last night I blacked out when we were fucking. I couldn’t get him off me and I thought that was it._

 

_Another stupid fight. I should just leave maybe. He has no problem leaving. I’m going to steal his fucking car and just go. I’ve been out here for two weeks now and I’m done. I’m done with this._

 

* * *

 

Trott flipped through the rest of the book, hoping to find more. Aside from a few drawings, there were no more entries. Some pages had little doodles, cartoons. There was a sketch in ink of a woman, with a short bob and a prominent chin, holding a cigarette. Fingerprints in paint stained the edges. Wedged near the back between blank pages was Ross’ business card, the lighthouse smudged with green paint. On the back another phone number was scrawled. Trott stared at it for a long time, wondering what to do.

The phone scared him, and he dropped the book. It rang twice but before he could get up to answer it stopped. Then it rang again and again and again. Trott stared at the phone, frozen with dread. The answering machine picked up but before it finished the greeting it clicked off. They’d hung up. The ringing started again. It was so loud in his quiet apartment Trott clapped his hands over his ears. When the machine picked up, Trott scrambled to his feet. A morbid fear that Sips had somehow discovered Trott’s snooping made his heart race.

The answering machine made it halfway through his greeting before it clicked off. Then the phone rang again.

“No,” Trott whispered. The phone kept ringing and Trott couldn’t stand it. He lunged for the counter, snatching the phone up.

“Hello?” Trott’s breath was ragged as if he’d run up all the stairs in the building.

No one answered but there was a sound on the line. It was soft and Trott had no idea what it was. A cough? Someone clearing their throat? A chill ran down his spine. Sips would have said something. It had to be someone else.

“ _Smith_ , is that you?” Trott felt crazy saying it but this whole situation with the phone calls was crazy. 

The line crackled with expectant silence.

“Look, I know. I saw your room. Please, I want to-”

Then there was a tremendous bang as if someone had thrown down the phone on the other end. Trott jumped, nearly dropping the phone.

“Hello? _Hello?_ ”

For a moment Trott half hoped someone might pick it up, but the line clicked off.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Trott approached the phone. He didn’t know what else to do. Holding the business card between his fingers, Trott dialed the number scribbled on the back.

“Hello?” Ross answered.

“It’s Trott, I-”

“Trott!” Ross sounded surprised, his voice rising. “How did you get my number?”

“You gave it to Smith, didn’t you?”

There was a pause, and Trott thought he heard something in the background. A radio maybe. Music.

“Did you see Smith?” Ross asked, his voice more professional. As if he'd turned on some switch in his head. 

“No, I.. I found something and I don’t know how to explain it without sounding crazy.”

“Are you okay, Trott?”

“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. I'm fine. Just freaked out.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m home, I’m fine here really it’s just - this is all weird.”

“What’s wrong?” Ross sounded concerned.

For a moment, he thought about asking Ross to come over. Trott glanced at the clock by his bed and winced at the time. It was much later than he’d thought.

“It is hard to explain, I should just show you. Can I meet you tomorrow?”

“There’s a little diner on 48th and Third,” Ross said. “Do you want to meet me for breakfast? It won’t be crowded early on a Sunday and the coffee is good.”

“When?” Trott twisted the phone cord around his fingers.

“Anytime you want.”

“Can you be there at 7?” It was horrendously early but that meant less chance of running into anyone he knew. It would be miserable getting up in the dark and getting over there but better than having someone tell Sips he was having breakfast with some other guy.

“I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Trott.”

“Goodnight.”

He thought about unplugging the phone, just in case it started ringing again. But after several minutes of watching it, Trott decided it was probably fine. If it was Smith calling him, he’d made his point already.


	17. Chapter 17

Trott wondered what Sips was doing. Certainly not getting dressed before the sun was up to go to some no name diner for breakfast. Sips was probably asleep in his extra soft sheets, under the heavy warmth of the bedspread. Trott hadn’t heard from him since the day they got back, and Sips had made some vague comments about end of year business to wrap up. They had plans for New Years eve of course, some party, but Trott could hardly think about it. There was a sparkling gold dress in a garment bag for the night, waiting for him to find the right shoes to wear with it. 

They’d spent every Sunday together for months, and Trott felt the break in his routine as he reluctantly climbed out of bed in the morning darkness. Not that Sips was ever up before 7am on a weekend. He certainly couldn’t call him now. But maybe later, after he’d seen Ross. Maybe this meeting would calm his nerves. He was probably overreacting to everything. 

Trott looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Most of the marks Sips left on him had faded away, except for the ever present bruise on his wrist. Carefully he covered it with some concealer. Then he rifled through his makeup, looking for the soft blue eyeliner. He couldn’t go out without makeup, and he couldn’t go out looking like he was on a date. He dusted the barest shimmer of eyeshadow and blush on his face before putting on his lipstick. It was a little more red than he wanted, but this one didn’t leave lip prints on coffee cups. 

For a long moment, Trott looked at the bracelets. He hooked in his favorite dangling star earrings, the ones Sips hated. Then he pulled on a chunky maroon sweater, the too long sleeves half swallowing his hands. From the depths of a pile of clothes he unearthed a pair of faded acid washed jeans Kim had talked him into buying that summer. He’d only ever worn them twice, disliking the high waist. But under the giant sweater, no one would see. 

It was still dark as he left the building, his winter coat flapping in the wind. Trott pulled the black beanie down over his hair, hoping no one who might recognize him was still awake from their Saturday night. 

 

* * *

 

The diner was an oasis of brightly lit windows, the neon clock gleaming on the corner of the building. The sky was starting to lighten between the buildings. Trott bounded over a puddle of slush and trash at the corner. He never stepped in them if he could help it - the curbside puddles could be deceptively deep. The walk had calmed some of his nervous energy. Part of him regretted calling Ross at all. In the morning cold it didn’t seem like such a big deal. The peculiar secret of the diary and that bedroom full of paintings gnawed at him however. Kim wasn’t around to confess to, and he’d let most of his other friendships lapse in the past year. He’d feel better telling someone about it, and then he could put it behind him. He could try to forget about it.

Inside it was busier than Trott anticipated, the air thick with the smell of bacon, cigarette smoke and coffee. Ross waved from a booth near the back and Trott shook off his coat with a grateful sigh. He stuffed his hat in a pocket and piled it beside him in the booth. The blue vinyl seat creaked. 

“Coffee?” a waitress clad in a crisp white shirt and a black skirt asked. She held menus in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. Her bleached blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Trott wondered if she was trying to look younger. There were crow’s feet beside her eyes, and a certain weariness in her gaze that Trott found uncomfortably familiar. He usually avoided places like this. They stirred up too many memories of watching his mother get ready for work, or seeing her come home to sit wearily staring into space at the kitchen table.

“Sure.” Trott gratefully cupped the worn white ceramic. He ignored Ross’ stare until she was gone, adding little pots of creamer until the coffee was a pale color. His spoon clinked against the cup, and left a spreading stain on the paper napkin.

“You look good,” Ross said, the unexpected compliment catching Trott off guard. 

“Thanks.” Trott peered over the laminated plastic menu at Ross. He’d half expected him to appear in some sort of Bogart movie ensemble, a hat and a trench coat maybe. Instead Ross wore a sweatshirt celebrating the last Stanley Cup win of the Islanders. It looked a bit like one of the knock offs you could buy from a street cart, the 1983 peeling at the edges. He had at least shaved for the occasion, judging from the tiny line of dried blood under his chin. 

“It’s just that I half expected you not to show.”

Trott frowned.

“You don’t look like the kind of woman who gets out of bed this early, that’s all.”

“I’m not a woman,” Trott replied in a frosty voice. He turned the waitress approaching their table. “Could I get pancakes with a side of bacon?”

“Sure. What about you?”

“Breakfast platter with hashbrowns, sausage and toast.”

“How you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled.” 

Once she’d collected their menus, Ross smiled a bit apologetically.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” Trott interrupted. “An easy mistake to make.”

“I met someone, and she was very adamant about being addressed as a woman.” Ross spun the flimsy silverware between his fingers. “You remind me a little bit of her. She was always dressed up.”

“Was this Tracey?” Trott asked. He felt a small twinge of gratification at Ross’ nod.

“Yeah, it was.” Ross leaned forward on his elbows. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? I thought you didn’t know Tracey.”

“I don’t.” Trott fumbled in his purse and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he bought on the walk to the diner. Ross pushed the plastic ashtray across the table for him. 

“I found something,” Trott said after a long pause. He stared out the window at the street, grey and lined in dirty mounds of leftover snow. “Some photos of Smith. And a diary.”

“Where?” Ross asked, watching Trott with a slightly unnerving intensity.

“At Sips’ lake house.” Trott tapped the ashes from his cigarette. It made him a little unsettled to smoke so early in the day but he needed something to do with his hands. “That’s not all. I found a bunch of Smith’s paintings. New ones. Ones that haven’t been shown. I think it was maybe all of his stuff. It’s all piled up in a spare bedroom out there.”

“Okay.” Ross sipped his own coffee. “It makes some sense that Sips might keep his work for him but that’s a weird place.”

“The thing is…” Trott paused as the waitress slid their plates onto the table. He wasn’t sure he was hungry now but the pancakes looked good. A paper cup of butter sat on the edge of the plate. The maple syrup was real maple syrup, not the colored corn syrup so many other places tried to pass off. It smelled heavenly. Trott’s stomach rumbled. He took a drag and stubbed out the half smoked cigarette. 

Across the table Ross was building a sort of sandwich out of his breakfast platter, piling everything between slices of toast. Trott nearly cut a bite of his pancakes. They were fluffy, the porous golden kind made with buttermilk and maybe a hint of vanilla. They reminded him just a bit of the pancakes his grandmother made on those rare visits to her farmhouse surrounded by fields and flat, endless skies. 

For a few moments, they didn’t speak. The diner bustled around them with the sound of the cook frying eggs, the clatter of dishes, a Cyndi Lauper song on the radio. 

“The thing is,” Trott began again as he cut into the pancake. “It was just his paintings. None of his personal stuff. No clothes or hair brush or shoes or anything. But I know he was out there because there are pictures of him at the house…”

Ross raised an eyebrow, chewing.

“You knew he was a…” Trott found himself suddenly unable to say the word. It felt embarrassing and awkward. 

“A hooker? Yeah I knew that.” Ross wiped his chin and cocked his head to the side. “Let me guess, naked pictures?”

“Some of them.” Trott chewed his pancakes, his pleasure in the taste gone already. “Some pictures from a party, where he’s with Sips.”

“Interesting.” Ross smiled affably at the waitress as she refilled the coffee. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. When she moved away, Ross focused on Trott’s face with an uncomfortable intensity. 

“That’s not all.” Trott took a deep breath and stirred his coffee with the spoon. “I found a diary, tucked into the back of a canvas in the closet.” On the radio, Cyndi Lauper kept singing about love and Trott felt unexpectedly melancholy. 

“Really.” This time he looked interested. Ross put his hands down on the table. 

“I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have this. Like maybe I should give it to you, and you could give it to, I don’t know, his brother or Tracey or someone. I read it, because I’m an asshole like that. But it sounded like he really cared about her…” He pulled the diary out of his purse and set it on the table between them. 

Ross whistled softly before wiping his hands clean. He picked up the diary and leaned back in the booth.

“I would do, but…”

“But what?”

“Tracey’s dead.”

“What?” Trott’s voice rose abruptly, and he looked down at the table hoping no one around them had noticed. 

“She died in that fire at the warehouse where she and Smith lived,” Ross said, his voice calm. “Her name isn’t in the news because Tracey was never her legal name, and the family refused to have anything to do with her. Her body’s still down at the morgue until someone claims it or the county buries her in a mass grave with everyone else unlucky enough to die poor or alone.”

“Jesus.” Trott stared in horror.

“Autopsy showed she was full of heroin, so she was probably nodded out when the fire started. Smoke inhalation.” Ross recited the facts in a low voice as he opened Smith’s diary. He didn’t look through the pictures like Trott expected, instead leaving them tucked under the cover while he flipped through the pages of Smith’s scribbled entries and sketches.

Trott set his fork down. He felt a bit sick. 

“Everything alright?” The waitress paused at their table. Trott couldn’t meet her gaze, focusing instead on the apron she wore. The pockets were full of napkins.

“Bad news about a friend,” Ross said, his voice still too casual for Trott to believe. She nodded, poured some coffee in Ross’ cup and bustled away to a table full of older men impatiently raising their cups. 

“How can you…”

“I deal with a lot of things, Trott, and sometimes they’re bad.” Ross shrugged. He was absorbed in the diary, reading some entries and rifling through the pages to look for more.

Trott held his coffee in both hands, and stared out the window. The early morning light was sharp, reflecting off the puddles in the road. Ross read the diary, pausing from time to time to take a bite of his messy breakfast sandwich. Trott didn’t know if he was envious or annoyed at how easily Ross handled all this. Like it was just another ordinary day, and people dying in warehouse fires was just something that happened. It all made Trott feel a bit queasy and anxious. 

“Where do you think he is?” Trott finally asked. 

“I think he’s dead, Trott.” Ross shook his head. “And I think Sips had something to do with it. You do too, or you wouldn’t have called me so freaked out last night.” Ross held the diary open on one of the last few entries. 

“No, that’s not… I don’t think that. Jesus, fuck. What the fuck?” Trott stabbed at the cooling pancake on his plate. 

“So what do you think?”

“I think he split, like he was talking about. Walked away from it all.”

“And just left Tracey, left his brother he paid me to find, left all his paintings, gave up everything.” Ross had that expression on his face again, like Trott was somehow to be pitied. “You really think that’s what happened?”

“I don’t know, okay?” The conversation was not helping Trott feel any better.

“I get that you’re trying to think of some way this doesn’t look bad for Sips…”

“I don’t like what your comment implies,” Trott said sharply. 

Ross shrugged. It made Trott bristle.

“Does he hurt you?”

“What? Are you kidding?”

This time Ross raised both his eyebrows.

“He ever rough you up in the bedroom, like in here?” he asked, gesturing towards the diary.

“What I do in the bedroom is none of your business,” Trott hissed. His cheeks burned under Ross’ searching gaze. Trott folded his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, suddenly worried Ross might see right through the concealer or under his clothes.

“You know, Trott, you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Uh huh.” He shook his head again. When he made to hand the diary back Trott shook his head.

“No way. I don’t want that. You keep it.”

“Worried what Sips might say if he found out you were snooping?”

“More worried about him finding out I’m having breakfast with the guy making his life hell over the asshole artist who decided to ditch everyone. Smith’s probably in some other city, sucking dicks and doing whatever.” Trott knew he sounded mean and petty but he couldn’t stop himself.

Before Ross could chide him for it, the waitress appeared again. She held up the coffee pot expectantly, their check in her other hand. Ross handed her a couple bills. 

“Keep the change.”

“Thanks, honey.” She topped off their coffee and gave Trott a long look before moving off. He wondered if she was more concerned about his lipstick choices or that he hadn’t finished the pancakes.

 

* * *

 

The walk home gave Trott too much time to think. He wasn’t thrilled to be home alone in his little apartment, staring at the pictures on the walls. Trott leaned against his kitchen counter and dialed Sips’ number. He tucked the phone against his shoulder as he opened the fridge and stared at the sparse contents. Maybe Sips would want to get dinner. They could go somewhere quiet, maybe the Chinese place. Or order in and watch a movie. Something cozy, just the two of them. 

The ringing continued and it wasn’t until Trott shut the door that he realized it was still going. It was odd for Sips not to answer the phone, and not to have his machine on. Trott counted ten more rings before he gave up. Chewing on his lip, he wondered where Sips might be.

Despite Ross’ warnings, Trott didn’t feel afraid of Sips. Whatever had happened between Sips and Smith was something completely different, even if there was some kind of relationship there. Trott was reluctant to call it a relationship, seeing as how it began on entirely mercenary terms. Nothing in Smith’s diary convinced him that Smith had feelings for Sips, or the other way around. 

Whatever had happened, it didn’t change their relationship. Trott held the citrine bracelet, running the smooth stones between his fingers. Sips loved him. He showed it all the time, and he said it too. Even when Trott found the sex too overwhelming, it was a still a sign that Sips adored him. So he wasn’t afraid. Even those photos of Smith didn’t change things. Maybe Smith liked it, maybe his whole thing was doing that sort of kinky stuff for money. They’d argued about money, about Smith fucking other people. It wasn’t anything like what he had with Sips. There wasn’t anything to worry about there. Obviously Sips hadn’t told him because it looked bad, paying someone for sex. Maybe he was ashamed. It probably had a lot to do with the kinky things he was into. Maybe people he dated before were less understanding than Trott. 

For most of Sunday, he dozed on his couch and halfheartedly watched television. Outside it was cold but sunny. The weather forecast predicted snow again tomorrow. 

Trott rang Sips again around six. The line trilled endlessly. It gave Trott a bad feeling to listen to the rings. He told himself that he was spooked for nothing, he was out of sorts from getting up so damn early and that entire weird conversation with Ross. Everything was probably fine - Sips was probably visiting his mother or something like that. It was silly to feel anxious about it. 

He ran the citrine bracelet over his wrist, wearing it as a kind of comfort. It was heavy, the gold links sliding over his skin. One caught at the tender inside of his wrist and Trott winced.  _ Everything is fine _ , he repeated to himself. You just took a days long Christmas vacation alone with Sips, and he gave you this bracelet, it is hardly time to worry about where he is.  _ Everything will be fine. _

 

* * *

 

On Monday, he drifted aimlessly around his apartment and to the store at the corner for groceries. It was bitterly cold. Flakes of snow drifted down, swirling around Trott as he walked the quiet street. An ambulance sped past, the siren echoing off the buildings. He wanted a cup of coffee but the little cafe was closed.  

The cold day alone in his apartment reminded Trott of old times. He felt unbearably melancholy about everything. When his mother was his age, she had a twelve year old and was working double shifts at the diner. His father was working at the dairy farm a county over six days a week. He spent a lot of time on his own, furtively reading magazines at the library or going through his mother’s sparse closet. 

He tried to shake the gloomy thoughts with a long bath. The rose scented bath cubes crumbled between his fingers, and condensation fogged up the mirror. Trott drank cherry cokes and smoked one of the cigarettes he’d bought, staring up at the ceiling. The silence felt too loud. Even the usual sounds of his neighbors were absent. It was as if the entire city had gone to sleep under the fresh blanket of snow. 

The phone didn’t ring until he’d carried it back to the kitchen counter afterwards. Trott picked it up, expecting Sips or maybe Kim. 

“Hello?” Trott answered. He picked up the remote to flip on the television. 

A sound rattled through the receiver, someone’s labored breathing. 

“Hello?” Trott frowned.

The sound abruptly stopped, and the eerie silence swelled. Trott swallowed, unable to speak. He just listened. Maybe something would happen or something would give away the person on the other end of line. Minute by minute, the silence dragged on. 

“Smith?” Trott finally whispered.

He heard a soft exhale as if the person was about to speak. Then the line went dead.

When Trott hung up the phone, it started ringing again.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Trott hung it up, and it rang again. The shrill noise put his teeth on edge.

“What the hell?” Trott half shouted this time. No one responded. The silence gave him nothing, just a mounting sense of dread.

“Goddamnit!” Trott slammed the receiver down. His hands shook, and he wrapped his arms around himself. His silk robe clung to his damp skin and goosebumps prickled his arms. Dread and fear twisted his stomach. Quickly, Trott snatched the phone up and dialed Kim’s number. No one answered her private line, or the main number of her parent’s home. He didn’t have the number for the place they’d rented for the holiday. Briefly he considered calling Nina but he didn’t know if she was even town. Better to just let it go.

Trott left the phone off the hook.

 

* * *

 

The thought of sitting around in his apartment wondering when the phone would ring drove Trott mad. He gathered up his dry cleaning and found as many errands to run as possible to spend time away. The weather was still bitterly cold. Under his heavy winter coat, Trott wore a dark purple wool dress. He liked the fitted sleeves and the way it flared from the gathered waist. It was a little short for a winter dress with a hem that hovered just below his knees. It looked strange with his winter boots, so he’d thrown on a pair of daytime heels and hose. His ankles were frozen but he looked nice. The heavy citrine bracelet sparkled at his wrist, and he’d put on eyeshadow with a hint of gold to match it. The glamour always helped when he visited the bank. The clerk was less likely to give him attitude or do a double take on his ID. 

He felt a bit of satisfaction in getting things done. The early darkness was already sinking down on the City and Trott decided to head towards home. As he strode down the block, heels clicking on the icy pavement, he startled at the reflection of Ross in a store window just behind him. 

“Are you stalking me again?” asked Trott. He cursed at the light and the traffic preventing him from dashing across the street. It was only a couple more blocks to home. 

“No!” Ross huffed, annoyed. “I would have just called but I couldn’t get through on the phone.”

“Oh, right.” Trott had forgotten about leaving the phone off the hook. Shit. 

“Look, I wanted to ask you something…”

Trott did not like where this was going.

“What kind of something?”

“You said there wasn’t anything else belonging to Smith at the house, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you check everywhere?”

“What do you mean, did I check everywhere?”

“Like, open up the drawers and closets. Look around. Other rooms.”

“I looked in the bathroom closet and that’s where I found the diary,” Trott said quietly. He looked around, but no one was standing anywhere near them. Even so, he sunk his chin into the pale blue scarf wrapped around his neck. “But no, I didn’t go looking through the drawers or anything. The room looked empty. Just paintings.”

“I need to go out there and take a look round,” Ross said, matching Trott’s quiet tone. 

“Are you kidding me?” Trott threw him a disbelieving look. “You want to me to give you his address?”

“I already know it,” Ross replied dismissively. 

“And what, you’ll break in?”

The light changed and they began crossing the street. Trott pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat. He’d forgotten his gloves.

“Do you really want me to tell you?” Ross asked. “Better if I don’t. Then you don’t have to lie.”

“We’re a little late for that,” Trott said. He glanced over at Ross, debating whether he should say anything.

“What?” Ross raised an eyebrow. 

“I think Smith’s been calling me.”

“What?” Ross repeated, nonplussed. 

“I got some more of those weird calls, but this time I could hear someone breathing, and I think it was Smith, because I asked if it was him and-”

They came around the corner as he tried to explain. Trott was hardly paying attention to anything else on the block. He was counting on Ross being intrigued enough by the calls to go investigate that instead of the lake house.

“What are you doing with him?” Sips snarled. He stepped forward and grabbed Trott by the arm, yanking him away from Ross. Trott stumbled, and felt the heel of his shoe catch in the sidewalk. He hit the ground on his knees, Sips grabbing the back of his coat just a moment too late. The sharp sting told Trott that he’d torn his hose and scraped his knee.

“Whoa, careful!” Ross raised his hands, palms out. “Trott!”

“He belongs to me. Back off.” Sips moved so he was between them. They stared at each other, squaring off in that angry way Trott had seen in bars far too many times. Sips looked bigger and more threatening in his dark suit and canary yellow shirt. 

“Trott doesn’t belong to anyone. Trott, are you okay?” Ross edged sideways, trying to keep Trott in his sight.

“I’m okay,” Trott said, his voice shaky. “I just tripped.” He struggled to his feet, wincing. His ankle twinged, and a trickle of blood ran down his knee. His scarf slipped loose, dangling uselessly.

“You didn’t trip, he pushed you,” Ross said, staring defiantly at Sips.

“Get the fuck out of here.” Sips glared at Ross. “Or I’m calling the police.”

“For what? Walking on a public sidewalk?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sips warned. “I’m warning you.” He gripped Trott’s wrist hard. Trott winced, shifting in his heels.

“Trott.” Ross looked at him questioningly. His hands flexed, his arms loose at his sides. Trott knew that Ross would be absolutely crazy enough to get into a fist fight with Sips. He wasn’t sure that Ross would win it though.

“Please, just go. It will be better if you do.” The last thing he wanted was some kind of brawl on the street, or for Sips to call the police. He had no idea what Sips might do to Ross, and he didn’t want to find out.

“Okay. You call me if you need anything. Anything.” Ross looked back and forth between them before stepping away. Sips watched him for a moment before yanking Trott towards the waiting car. Trott glanced over his shoulder, half wanting to call him back.

A sharp tug on his arm turned him back to Sips.

“What the fuck were you doing with that guy?” Sips demanded. “Huh?”

“He’s just a friend.”

“Just a friend.” Sips sneered.

“There’s nothing-”

“Don’t act like I’m stupid, Trott.”

“I’m not, I-” 

Sips slapped him hard across the face. Trott froze for a moment as the pain bloomed. His face stung, and he could taste blood in his mouth from his split lip. He didn’t resist as Sips pushed him into the car, sliding automatically across the seat as Sips followed him. The door slammed.

“Take us back to my place,” Sips snapped.

“Sips-”

“Shut the fuck up, jesus.” He dug out his cigarettes. “I know who he is, Trott, and you’re not fooling me. I want to know why you’re all buddy buddy with Mr. Private Investigator who’s been making my life hell for months.”

Trott caught the eye of the driver briefly before he looked away and pulled them into traffic. 

“Are you fucking that guy?” 

“No,” Trott whispered.

“Are you lying to me?” Sips took a drag, staring at Trott.

“No!” Trott half turned in the seat. “Please, Sips, I would never-”

“Whatever.” Sips remained silent for the rest of the drive, smoking and looking out the car window. Trott curled into himself, head down. His face hurt, and blood trickled into his torn panty hose. He felt strangely embarrassed and ashamed, that Ross had seen Sips like this, that the driver had seen this. 

 

* * *

 

It didn’t get any better once they were in Sips’ apartment. If he’d thought Sips might apologize for hitting him, that thought vanished as Sips slammed the door. His rage was palpable. 

“You’d better have a really good explanation for this, Trott.”

“There’s nothing to explain! I ran into him on the street!”

“You don’t think I know what you’re up to?”

“I’m not up to anything,” Trott said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Oh yeah?” Sips shook his head, as if he was disappointed. “What did I tell you? Not to go in there, not to disturb anything. You just couldn’t listen, could you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Smith’s room.” Sips looked at him. “The paintings were moved. That’s why you swept the balcony, eh? So I wouldn’t see you’d gone in that way?”

Trott felt the blood drain from his face.

“So what I need to know right now is just what you told that guy.”

“I didn’t- I-”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Sips hit him again, this time with his fist. Trott staggered, catching the back of the couch. He couldn’t make a sound. He’d never been punched in the face before. It hurt more than he’d imagined.

“Oh my god,” Trott moaned, curling half over. He gingerly touched his face. Sips grabbed him by the shoulder, and Trott flinched. But there was not a second blow. Instead Sips pulled him up by the front of his dress. Something ripped as he did.

“What did you tell him?” Sips loomed in front of him.

“Please, Sips.” Trott’s eyes watered. “Please stop yelling, you’re scaring me!”

“Just tell me, Trott.” He shook Trott violently, hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“Only that the paintings were at your house. And I gave him the pictures.”

“What pictures?” 

“The polaroids of Smith, at the house...”

“Shit,” Sips hissed. “What else? What else does he know?” He shook Trott again and it made it him dizzy.

“I don’t- I gave it to him to read, I thought he’d see Smith had just left and there was no reason…”

“Read what?” 

“The diary. The diary that was with the pictures.”

Sips stared at him for a moment. His eyes narrowed, brows drawn into a frown.

“Shit,” he sighed. “Shit.”

Sips dragged him up the stairs and into his bedroom. Trott stumbled, feeling his ankle slide out from underneath him. It twisted and a sharp pain ran through him. He tried to stifle his yelp.

“Stay there. Don’t move.” Sips shoved him towards the bed.

Trott sat miserably on the edge while Sips stomped into his closet. He came out with a duffel bag and an armful of clothes.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going out of town,” Sips answered. “We’re gonna take a little trip, figure things out.”

Trott wanted to get up and wash his face, see if it was bruising. But Sips had told him to stay put. His knee and ankle throbbed. 

“Should I change, or clean up?” Trott asked, his voice cracking. He put his head in his hands.

“No.” 

A moment later, Sips pulled Trott to his feet.

“Take off your coat,” he demanded, yanking at it before Trott could respond. Then he twisted Trott’s arms behind his back. Using Trott’s thin fleece scarf, Sips tied his wrists together.

“Hey, what, no-” He tried to step away but his ankle throbbed. Sips shoved him backwards on the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Sips snapped. He grabbed the red leather mask from the bedside table.

“No, please, no!” Trott tried to scramble out of reach, but Sips dragged him back to the edge of the mattress. Trott thrashed, kicking out in his panic. His foot connected with Sips’ thigh. Then Sips punched him again, the crack of his knuckles making Trott’s vision go white with pain. 

“Open your fucking mouth,” Sips hissed. 

Blood ran freely from his nose, making Trott cough as he obeyed the command. The leather gag pushed down on his tongue. He didn’t resist as Sips rolled him onto his stomach and laced the mask as tight as possible. Trott’s face throbbed. He had to try not to cry, or he’d never be able to breathe, he thought.

“I just do not want to hear it right now, Trott.” Sips climbed off the bed and left him there. “I need you to be fucking quiet.”

Dimly, Trott could hear the sounds of him moving around. He picked up the phone, called someone. Trott couldn’t quite make it out. His heartbeat pounded dully in his ears as he rolled onto his side. He wondered if he was bleeding onto the bedspread, if the dry cleaner could get the blood out or if Sips would be angry about this when he realized. The pain in his face didn’t exactly subside but it became easier to deal with the longer he laid there. 

_ Everything will be okay _ , Trott told himself.  _ He’ll calm down and it will be okay.  _ This was some crazy misunderstanding, some unexpected jealousy mixed up with all the bad business about Smith. Trott shied away from the idea that this had anything really to do with Smith’s disappearance. It was just Sips’ business and the publicity, he was stressed out about it. Ross’ ideas were crazy. Sips would never hurt him, he wouldn’t...

His face ached, and Trott swallowed, uncomfortable in the gag. Was his nose broken? Everything hurt, everything was a mess. He didn’t know what to do. No one had ever hit him like this. Trott kept replaying the scene, trying to find a version where he said and did the right things to calm Sips down instead of infuriating him. 

_ Everything will be fine _ , he repeated in his head. He couldn’t shake the mental image of Ross giving him one of those sad, raised eyebrow stares.

 

* * *

 

Sips draped Trott’s coat over his shoulders, and wrapped an expensive silk scarf around his head to conceal his face as much as possible. The wild thought that he would get blood on it made Trott moan slightly. He twisted his hands in futile protest. The fleece pulled tight, not giving him any slack to slip free. His bracelet bit into his skin, and Trott imagined the imprint of the links forming.

“Be quiet, Trott, and do not make a scene,” Sips said, his voice heavy with threat. They took the elevator down to the lobby. Trott waited obediently as Sips spoke to the concierge, and slipped the man a tip. Trott stared at the polished floor, avoiding eye contact. He had to put his feet down carefully, even as Sips hurried him, to avoid slipping or stumbling. He wondered where they were going.

Sips’ own car waited in front of his building. He swiftly bundled Trott into the passenger seat, snapping the seatbelt tightly over his lap before climbing behind the wheel. They roared off into the road. Sips flicked on the radio but didn’t sing along with it. Instead he swore under his breath at the stop and go traffic and drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. It seemed to be later than Trott had imagined. He’d lost track of time, sprawled there on Sips’ bed. Headlights slid by, and the red of brake lights illuminated the road ahead. 

Trott wanted to press his face against the cool glass of the window. It was hard to be comfortable with his hands behind his back. His feet were so cold, and goosebumps prickled his skin. Dried blood from his skinned knee itched. He hoped Sips wasn’t going to punish him more. His face ached, swelling against the leather mask. The motion of the car lulled him a bit, and Trott dozed as they finally left the City.

When the car stopped, Trott jerked back awake. From the utter darkness, he guessed they were at the lake house. It was silent and dark. Sips pulled the car into the garage. Maybe if he was just very still and quiet, Sips would calm down. They could go to bed, and in the morning they’d talk. Sips would apologize, Trott would apologize, and Sips would admit he’d over reacted, and they’d find a way to straighten things out.  _ Everything is going to be okay _ , he repeated in his head.  _ He loves you. It’s just a fight, everything will be fine _ . 

“Get out.” Sips unsnapped the seat belt and pulled Trott to his feet. He stumbled, his body stiff from the long car ride. 

The house was cold, barely warmer than outside. Sips dragged Trott through the dark kitchen and into the living room. He shoved Trott down onto the floor by the sofa. The christmas tree was still there. Without the twinkling lights it was just an enormous shadow. Just a few days ago, they’d had sex underneath the tree, Trott remembered. Everything had been warm and beautiful.

“Don’t move.” Sips stomped back into the garage. Hesitantly, Trott curled his legs underneath himself. His coat slipped off his shoulders to the carpet.

Trott racked his brain, trying to remember putting the paintings back, wondering what he’d misplaced that tipped Sips off. He was sure he’d been careful. Hopefully Sips would turn on the lights and the heat as soon as he came back. Sitting here in the dark was unnerving. The expectant silence reminded him too much of the weird phone calls, of the horrible blankness in the second bedroom upstairs.

A door slammed and Trott flinched. He pressed his face against the sofa, biting down on the leather gag to keep himself from making a sound. Sips stomped up to the bedrooms. Trott listened to his footsteps, moving around upstairs. 

He wondered if Smith was here, if Sips was going upstairs to bring him down. The wild hope faded almost as quickly as it came. Smith wouldn’t be sitting out here in the dark with the heat off. Trott shivered and wished he could pull his coat back over himself. 

Sips’ footsteps rattled back down the stairs and he brushed past Trott. There was a scratch, and the bright flare of a match. Trott watched as he coaxed flames into catching the logs waiting in the fireplace with balled up papers from a briefcase. In the glow Trott studied his profile. Sips looked calmer as he flipped through a stack of papers, choosing ones to consign to the slowly growing fire. 

“Such a fucking waste,” Sips sighed. He glanced at Trott, his face shadowed. “This has not gone how I wanted it to go.”

Trott couldn’t help making a soft noise. He hoped Sips would take out the gag so they could talk.

“I like you, Trott. I thought there was real potential here, with us. I thought we were in love.”  Sips put another handful of paper on the fire. Hesitantly, Trott scooted himself closer. He desperately wanted to get warm again.

Sips’ hand stroked through his hair, and over the leather mask. Trott let himself put his head on Sips’ leg, hoping this was a good sign.

“You’ve always wanted to meet Smith, haven’t you? That’s why you came to the opening all dressed up, why you let me take you out for a drink.” 

Trott wished Sips would ungag him so he could respond.

“I thought we’d gotten past that, Trott, I really did. That’s why I brought you out here. I thought I could trust you. But I was wrong.”

Trott groaned, trying to speak. 

“You still want to meet Smith, eh? Well. I’ll take you to see him. Then this can all be over.” 

Trott lifted his head, looking at Sips in confusion. Was Smith actually here then? He felt a surge of relief. This would all be straightened out. It would all make sense. He’d reassure Sips so he didn’t have any reason to be jealous. They’d clear things up with Ross. It was all going to be okay. 

Sips pulled Trott to his feet, and half dragged him towards the door leading out to the back deck. He paused to grab a flashlight from the kitchen.

“A beautiful night, isn’t it?” Sips looked around.

The night was dark and moonless. The snow glowed faintly under the stars, a blue shadow covering the ground. The only difference between the trees and the sky was the scattering of stars. Trott shivered, longing for his coat. He wanted to go back inside.

When Sips pulled Trott off the deck and into the snow, Trott fell. His knees burned and the snow immediately soaked into his pantyhose. 

“Get up,” Sips said. He yanked on Trott’s arm. They waded through the knee high snow towards the trees. Trott whimpered at the cold. He lost a heel but Sips wouldn’t stop and soon he lost the other. 

Sips dragged him all the way down to the lake, to the dock and the little boat house. They hadn’t come down here before. Sips had said it was too cold to be out on the water. Trott wondered now if Smith had been hiding here the entire time. 

There was no welcoming light though, no sign of life or Smith. Only the dark lake and the cold wind coming off the water. The boat floated empty and silent, a sleek white shape in the gloom. The dock seemed to stretch forever, so many stumbling steps. Trott stared in confusion, trying to catch his breath. He was starting to shake, his legs trembling and barely able to hold him upright. He could barely feel his feet.

“Stay here,” Sips said and left him waiting beside the boat. Exhausted and freezing, Trott sank down onto the boards of the dock. None of this was right. He watched dully as Sips banged into the boat house, the light of the flashlight flickering around inside. Trott could hear him dragging something heavy. Trott dropped his head, feeling a sickening fear that made it hard to breathe. Below him, the water lapped against the dock. 

Trott looked up, and it seemed like there was a flash of light somewhere in the distance. Red, like a firework. It was the wrong day, he thought. New Year’s eve wasn’t until tomorrow. Unless it already was tomorrow? He had no idea what time it was. How long had it taken to drive out to the lake? He bent forward, slumping over. He was so cold. This was all wrong.

Sips dragged something past him. Trott felt the brush of plastic, the crinkle of a garbage bag. Something metal scraped against the wood. He looked briefly at the thing Sips was dragging, and closed his eyes.

_ Everything’s going to be okay _ , Trott thought. A sob choked him and his thoughts splintered into panic. He heard Sips cursing in the darkness as he heaved the heavy bag into the boat. It rocked in the water. Trott pressed his face to the board beneath him. It was so hard to breathe. His whole body shook.

“Trott!” Someone was yelling. Trott wanted to lift his head and look but everything was so hard to do. Sips swore, and Trott felt a hand grab the back of his dress. He couldn’t make himself stop shaking, couldn’t push himself up to look. 

“Fucking move,” Sips snarled, close to his ear. But Trott couldn’t stand, couldn’t make his legs stay under him. He slipped down, barely feeling it as he hit the dock. There was more yelling now, and Trott closed his eyes. He prayed Sips wouldn’t hit him again as Sips grabbed him by the shoulders, heaving him up. Trott wondered if they were taking the boat to see Smith. He couldn’t feel his hands or his feet. The shouting blurred together in his ears and Trott swayed as Sips pushed him. Something cracked, a sharp, loud sound. 

Instead of falling into the boat, Trott fell into the water.

The icy slap of the lake made Trott’s face hurt all over again. He screamed against the gag. It was so, so cold. Trott felt like his entire body was locking up, freezing solid. He thrashed in the water that stung everywhere as he sank down. Bright spots flared in his vision. Some part of him knew things were not going to be okay now, nothing was ever going to be okay. Water flooded into his nose and he choked again, struggling to breathe. He thought he could hear the ringing of his phone and he knew he needed to answer it. It was important. Someone was calling him. The water tasted like blood and Trott tried to spit out. He kicked weakly as he sank down into the darkness, straining to hear someone’s voice call out his name.


	18. Chapter 18

Bright light filled his vision and Trott turned away from it with a groan. It stabbed painfully into his eyes. He clenched his jaw. To his surprise, the gag was out of his mouth and nothing stopped his teeth from biting into his lip.

“Can you hear me, Chris?” a woman asked. “Chris, I need you to look at me.”

Slowly, Trott turned his head towards the light and the sound. It took a moment for things to focus. His eyes watered.

“That’s it,” the woman said with a small smile. Gently she put her hands to the sides of Trott’s head. “Do you know where you are?” She was dark skinned, with closely cropped hair and golden brown eyes. They were luminous against the rich black of her skin. She wore a thin gold chain that dipped under the neck of her pale green scrubs. 

“No,” Trott managed. His voice was weak and sounded like it was coming from far away.

“You’re in Hamilton County Hospital,” she said. “I’m Doctor Jameson. The police brought you here.”

Trott closed his eyes. He wanted to sink back into the dark. It was warm here though. His fingers curled against the scratchy sheets. 

“Chris, I need you to stay with me, okay?” She squeezed his shoulder. “The police want to talk to you, and then you can get some sleep. We’ve gotten you all taken care of and none of your injuries are serious.”

“How…” Trott didn’t know what to ask.  _ How did I get here? Where is Sips? What happened? _ He opened his eyes again, blinking. The hospital room was too bright, the overhead lights buzzing. 

“The good news is that you didn’t swallow too much water and your frostbite isn’t that bad. You are very, very lucky.”

The lake, Trott thought in a daze. Where was Sips? Had Sips pulled him out of the lake?

“Your feet are going to hurt, and you’ll have some blistering, but you’re not going to lose any toes.” Doctor Jameson paused, and adjusted something at Trott’s beside. He watched her, and realized there was an IV in his hand, tubes taped to his arm. His hands burned and tingled, the skin bright red like he’d dipped his hands in boiling water.

“The bad news is that your nose is broken,” she sighed. “Fortunately you didn’t have any frostbite on your face. There was quite a bit of blood but once we cleaned you up it didn’t look too bad. It is going to hurt for a couple weeks though the swelling should go down sooner.”

“I can’t feel that.” Trott said. He lifted his hand, gesturing vaguely. “Where-”

“We’re giving you some anti inflammatories and some painkillers. Nothing too strong before you talk with the police. But after that, I can give you something to help you sleep.”

“The police?” Trott blinked.  _ Why are the police here? Did Sips call the police?  _ He couldn’t remember getting to the hospital. He couldn’t remember anything except the cold, the painful cold, Sips swearing, the dock… Trott felt a surge of fear. His heart thudded, and Trott shuddered. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble.” She patted his shoulder, watching the monitors beside the bed. “You’re going to be okay, Chris.”

 

* * *

 

After the two police officers left his room, Trott hoped the doctor would come and drug him to sleep. He felt sick, swirling unease running through his veins. The heart rate monitor ranged up and down, his pulse speeding up when he thought about the questions they asked. What he knew. What he’d seen. Sips. Smith. Ross. They hadn’t answered any of his questions. Instead they had him sit up for pictures, the flash blinding. It had taken all his strength not to break down sobbing. 

The door opened.

“How are you?” Ross asked, settling into the chair beside his bed. He wore a set of hospital scrubs.

“Are you really… tell me you did not sneak into the hospital,” Trott groaned. He wondered if he was hallucinating.

“No,” Ross laughed. “They gave me these when we got here. No hypothermia for me though!” Ross cocked his thumb at his chest with a goofy grin. It didn’t reach his eyes, or clear his furrowed brow.

“Why…” Trott closed his eyes. “How did you know I was here?”

“I followed you back to Sips’ building,” Ross said. “When I saw him put you in the car, I knew he was headed out here. So I borrowed a car from a friend and came after you.”

“But why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Ross said. “I’m sorry.”

“The police were here.”

Ross nodded.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything. I don’t remember… I remember being on the dock.”

Gently, Ross put his hand on Trott’s. 

“It’s okay, Trott, there’s nothing right now you need-”

“He said he was going to take me to see Smith,” Trott interrupted, his voice rising frantically. “But he wasn’t in the house and everything was cold and-”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Ross squeezed his hand. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

“I don’t know where we were going-”

“He was going to kill you,” Ross said slowly. “Like he killed Smith.”

“No,” Trott whimpered. “He loved me. He didn’t...”

“I know.” Ross sighed heavily. “But Smith’s body was in the boat when I got there.”

The scrape of plastic and metal on the boards, the thing Sips dragged past him. Trott’s stomach twisted.

“He was already dead Trott, probably a long time ago. Sips had him in the freezer or something.” Ross looked haggard, his eyes bloodshot and his skin pale. Trott could see the blue veins under his skin. 

“I was in the house,” Trott said. He swallowed, his throat dry. “I was there and he was…”

“It’s not your fault, Trott.” Ross squeezed his hand again. “There was no way you could know.”

“He said he loved me and I  _ believed  _ him and I thought it would be  _ okay _ …” Trott shook his head. “I’m so stupid. I loved him.”

“You’re not stupid.” It hurt when Ross squeezed his hand but Trott didn’t want to let go. He was horrendously afraid.

The monitors beside the bed chimed.

“Excuse me,” said a nurse. She strode authoritatively to the bed. “I’m going to have to ask you to let the patient rest. It is very late, you know.”

“Don’t leave me here!” Trott begged as Ross stood up. He was ashamed of how frightened he sounded.

“I’ll be right outside, waiting. Do you want me to call someone?”

“Kim. She’s-”

“I got it, Trott.” Ross leaned over and put his hand on Trott’s cheek. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

“Sir, please.” The nurse glared. She pulled a syringe out of the pocket of her coat.

“Get some sleep, Trott, I’ll be back.”

The nurse injected something into Trott’s IV. He couldn’t bear to watch. Instead he stared at the ceiling. The heat of tears running down his cheeks startled him. The nurse turned off the overhead lights, leaving on the lamp at the side of the bed. Trott closed his eyes against the dimly lit hospital room and cried.

 

* * *

 

In the morning Trott fitfully endured the examinations of the nurses. When they unwrapped his feet, Trott sucked in a breath at the swollen, bruised look of them. After that, he stared at the ceiling and tried to pretend he was somewhere else entirely. 

A nurse helped him to the bathroom, an arduous process that involved a wheelchair just to cross the room. His feet throbbed even when he didn’t put weight on them. He was too low to see himself in the mirror. Trott didn’t know if that was a blessing or a misery. His wrists were bruised, the red and purple marks visible around the tape holding the IV in place on the back of his hand. He could see the pattern of the bracelet links in his skin.

The shower was lukewarm, and he had to sit on a plastic stool. The water stung his skin. At least it hid the tears. Trott tried to cry as quietly as possible. He gingerly washed himself with the harsh pink soap, wishing he was home in his own shower. The nurse was standing just outside the bathroom. Afterwards she wrapped his feet in bandages before giving him a pair of socks. They were pale blue, with rubbery non skid strips on the soles.

Lunch was a miserable plate of food and watery juice. He picked at it, distracted and fretful. It hurt when he touched the split in his lower lip. Ross hadn’t returned and Trott was half afraid he’d been abandoned in this hospital out in the middle of nowhere. Trott had only the vaguest idea of where the lake house was in relation to the City. He didn’t even know where his keys were, or his wallet. They’d been in the pocket of his coat but that was in the lake house… Trott’s thoughts blanked. His hand shook so badly he spilled his water, drops splattering the tray. He pushed it away, the bland turkey sandwich half eaten. 

Just as he was steeling himself to try to make a long distance phone call, the door opened. Ross poked his head in. He was dressed in his own clothes or at least what Trott hoped were his own clothes. A battered leather jacket, that silly hockey sweatshirt and jeans. He had a white plastic sack in one hand.

“Hey, are you ready to get out of here?”

“Are you kidding me?” Trott groaned. 

“Got someone here to take you home.” Ross pushed the door open wider and Kim entered the room. She pulled off her sunglasses. In her black wool boucle Chanel suit trimmed in red and cream, she looked unreal in the dingy hospital room. Trott blinked, startled to see her.

“Oh Trott,” she said, and her voice broke. She rushed to the side of the bed and hugged him tightly. “Trott, oh my god.”

“How did you get here?” Trott managed. “I thought you were in Florida.” He could feel Kim shaking, trying not cry.

“Your weirdo private detective friend here somehow tracked down the number of the place my parents booked for the family holiday. I flew up early this morning in uncle Patrick’s plane.”

“He’s not my friend,” Trott said without thinking. It came out harsh. Embarrassed, he glanced at Ross who only shrugged and smiled. 

“Whatever,” Kim sighed. “Oh god, Trott, your face. What did he do to you?”

“He hit me a couple times.” Trott tried to smile and failed. To his complete horror he could feel his mouth trembling, tears threatening to spill.  It was too hard to shrug it off here, sitting in a hospital bed. This was so much worse than telling Kim about Lewis dumping him, so much worse than anything Trott had ever imagined.

“If Ross hadn’t already shot him, I would.” Kim grimaced. “That asshole. That fucking asshole.”

“What? Shot?” Trott pulled back. Dread curled in his stomach.

Kim glanced at Ross, who raised both eyebrows. “No one told him?”

“You don’t remember?” Ross asked. ”What happened on the dock?”

“Since when do you have a gun? Did you shoot Sips? Is he okay? Oh my god.” Trott stumbled over the words.

“He’s fine,” Kim half growled. “Don’t worry about that prick.” 

“He had surgery to get the bullet out,” Ross explained. “They’ll probably release him in a day or so. He’ll limp for a bit but he’s okay.” His voice was carefully, painfully neutral.

“You shot him!” Trott felt dizzy. “Oh my god.”

“I only shot him because he pushed you into the lake,” Ross finally said. He looked down at the floor. “I was worried I’d hit you so I waited too long..”

“Ross went in after you,” Kim interrupted. “He saved your life. You would have drowned or frozen or something.” 

That’s why he had the scrubs. The joke about no hypothermia. The memory of the cold, the darkness, the taste of blood in his mouth and water. Ross had saved his life.

“You are crazy,” Trott finally managed.

“Crazy like a fox,” he joked. Ross smiled slightly but something melancholy lingered in his expression. 

“Oh Trott,” Kim said quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Unable to hold back at the sight of her anguished face, Trott started to cry again. It hurt, especially his nose. But he couldn’t keep it inside. He was vaguely aware of Ross retreating, the sound of the door closing just audible over his wrenching sobs.

 

* * *

 

Kim took him back to the City. Ross declined the offer to ride along, explaining he needed to stay and talk with the local police about the shooting and Sips. Plus he still had to return the car he’d borrowed. He warned Kim and Trott that they’d probably hear from the police, that Trott might have to give another statement. Ross had lifted him from the wheelchair into the backseat of the sleek Town Car. He was much stronger than Trott realized. He must be, to jump into a freezing lake and drag a half drowned person out.

“You’re coming to my place,” Kim said firmly as the limousine pulled away from the curb. A few curious people lingered on the sidewalk, gawking at the sight of a brand new Lincoln Town Car and driver. Trott hoped they were gawking at the car and not at him with his battered face.

“Kim, I just want my own bed.” Trott stared out the rear window until they turned a corner and Ross disappeared. He sat sideways in the seat, feet propped up. Kim sat across from him in the rear facing seats. She rummaged in the mini bar, pulling out ice and a bottle.

“You can’t even walk, how are you going to get to your own bed?” 

“I don’t know,” Trott said in exasperation. “I don’t even have my keys.”

“I have your stuff. It’s in the trunk.” 

The dress was probably ruined, Trott thought. He didn’t want to wear it anyway. Thankfully Kim had brought some clothes for him, a cream silk blouse and a long maroon corduroy skirt Trott vaguely remembered from one of their thrift shopping hunts. At least it was warm. His legs felt naked without hose. It was too much of a hassle to try to put them on in the hospital. He was still wearing the absurd slipper socks. His shoes were lost, probably still somewhere in the snow. Trott wondered if the police had them.

“They were in my coat and it was in the house…” Trott wondered if someone had cut the gag off his face. The police probably had it. The idea made him cringe.

“He found it.” Kim reached over and put a drink in Trott’s hand. “The detective. Ross. He went into the house, looking for you.”

“God.” Trott leaned his head back against the seat. “I don’t know if I should drink.”

“You need a drink after all that.” Kim leaned forward to clink her glass against Trott’s. 

Trott cradled the glass in both hands as the limousine swung onto the highway. It would take a couple hours to drive back to the City.

“Besides the stuff like stairs,” Kim said after a few miles. “Once this hits the papers, there are going to be reporters all over. Not just tabloid ones either. The regular paper, the television stations. It hasn’t yet just because of the holiday.”

Trott groaned. 

“Besides, I don’t want you anywhere that Sips might be able to get to you.”

“They arrested him, didn’t they?” The thought of seeing SIps made Trott’s stomach flip. 

“Yeah, but that creep probably has a lawyer on call already. I don’t think you should be out on bail for murder but who knows what’s going to happen.”

“Attempted murder,” Trott said. “I’m still alive.”

Kim looked at him, and took off her sunglasses. She was pale, not even wearing her usual eyeliner. When she frowned, it made her forehead wrinkle.

“Ross told me they found Smith.”

“Right.” Trott sighed. “Him too, I guess.” He hated to think of it. 

“Did you see him?”

“Not really.” Trott wondered if he would ever get rid of that memory. He’d known but he hadn’t wanted to know. Every time he admitted that the weight Sips dragged past him was Smith, he felt a deep black hole open up inside his chest. It was all he could do not to scream or cry. 

“We were supposed to go to a party tonight,” Trott said instead as he turned the glass around and around in his hands. The ice cubes tinkled. “It’s New Year’s eve.” 

“Please tell me it wasn’t the Astor Cohen party.”

Trott nodded and Kim groaned.

“Do you want me to call Marjorie and tell her you’re not coming? Do you want to call her?”

“No.” Trott thought a moment. “Are you going?”

“Are you kidding? I’m staying with you.” Kim gestured with her glass. “I was going to spend New Years at some stupid party in Miami while my mother tried to set me up with someone’s cousin from Hong Kong. Staying home sounds a hell of a lot better. We can drink champagne, take your vicodin and watch Dick Clark.”

Trott sipped at the vodka in his glass. “Jesus Kim, isn’t there something to put in this so I’m not drinking straight vodka right after I leave the hospital?”

She laughed, her forehead smoothing out.

“There’s cola in here, I think.” She poured some into his glass, and made herself another drink. 

“Oh honey,” Kim said and Trott realized he was crying again. Tears burned down his cheeks. Awkwardly Kim knelt beside the seat and put her arms around him. 

 

* * *

 

The news broke on the 2nd. The holiday meant the courts were closed on the 1st. When they reopened the next day to arraign a few drunk drivers and one murder suspect. Trott watched the brief stories, with that familiar picture of Alex Smith. By 10pm, there was a shot of Sips at the county courthouse on the way to his hearing. He knew that meant in the morning it would be on every newspaper in the City. 

Kim grumbled. “Do we have to watch this?”

“I need to know what’s happening,” Trott said quietly. He wished he could pause the television and study Sips’ face. He wondered what he was thinking. Sips had been denied bail for the moment. It was a small relief. 

“I’m glad I went to your apartment yesterday.” Kim had brought back an armful of clothes and his makeup bag. “Your machine probably already has a ton of messages.”

“Maybe.”

“The phone rang while I was there.”

“Did you answer it?”

Kim shook her head. “They hung up when they got the machine. Probably just some telemarketer.”

Trott nodded and curled into the sofa. He was hunched into the thick bathrobe he wore over the loose pajamas. The terry cloth soaked up the tears easily. Trott kept catching himself crying. Sometimes he didn’t even realize until he tried to take a deep breath and choked. He’d woken up this morning with the salty trail of dried tears burning on his face.

 

* * *

 

_ SKYBLOCK GALLERY FOUNDER CHARGED WITH MURDER OF STAR ARTIST _

_ SEX, LIES AND PAINTINGS _

_ LAKE HORROR - MURDER AND MORE _

_ THE REAL LIFE OF ALEX SMITH _

_ MORE CHARGES POSSIBLE IN ART WORLD MURDER _

_ THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE DEAD _

_ LOVASZ CHARGED WITH MURDER, ATTEMPTED MURDER WHILE AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATE SKYBLOCK FINANCES _

_ ART WORLD MURDER REVEALS MILLION DOLLAR MOTIVE _

“Do you really want all that?” Kim asked, glancing over the pile of papers in front of Trott. He had a stack of all the day’s tabloids and papers sent up by the concierge who seemed unfazed by the request.

“I’m making a scrapbook.”

“Weird, but okay.” She picked up one of the papers. “I had no idea Skyblock was such a mess financially.”

“Neither did I,” Trott admitted. “I know he was talking to someone about financing, but I thought it was for an expansion. He must have been so stressed.” The article about the ruinous state of Skyblock’s books had surprised him, describing payments missed and juggled, money appearing and disappearing. Trott thought of all those dinners at Lutece and Ciro’s. There were layers and layers to Sips’ life that Trott was only now realizing. He felt foolish for not paying better attention or being more careful somehow. For believing life could be a fairy tale where a handsome, wealthy man fell in love with him and swept him off his feet.

Kim flung herself down in one of the chairs and swung her feet up over the arm. She’d gone to the Nano for a few hours. The gallery was going to be open only a few days a week for now. Nina was going to recruit a friend or two to come help out. Trott couldn’t even think about being at work right now, about going through the motions. Ordinary life felt impossibly far away.

“My parents are going to see this,” Trott said as he flipped through the papers. 

“Do you think they’ll realize it’s you?”

“That their long lost son is a queer cross dressing attempted murder victim?” Trott shrugged. “I don’t know. But someone will make the connection. Nothing better in a small town than juicy gossip.” Trott had a vague dread he’d turn on the television one night and his parents would be there, talking about him. 

Carefully, Trott started cutting up the papers. It was weird to see his picture under the gruesome headlines. Most of them were from the Skyblock Christmas party, though one or two used pictures from the Halloween ball.  _ I’m in a costume in every one of these _ , Trott thought.

“What do you want for dinner?” Kim got up and walked towards the kitchen. 

“Whatever,” Trott answered as he clipped out the articles and the photos. It was peculiar to read these breathless accounts. They got so much wrong. The police released only the bare minimum of information -- that Smith was most definitely dead, Trott was alive and Sips was still in jail. His lawyer was fighting for a new bail hearing. The papers were full of speculation about the value of Smith’s work, what would happen to his work now that it seemed like Skyblock would shut down. There were a lot of questions about the unseen paintings. Trott thought about those carefully painted maps. He wondered where they would go.

“I think I’ll order pasta from Moltosanti’s,” Kim announced. 

“Sounds good,” Trott said, distracted. It was hard to think about food or anything else right now but the gnawing question.  _ Why _ , he thought over and over.  _ Why did this happen? Why did he do this? Why? _

 

* * *

 

By the end of the week, Trott was tentatively hobbling around the apartment in a pair of slippers. His feet seemed to be healing faster than he’d hoped. Trott hated the idea of wearing sensible shoes like he was a nurse or a librarian. Instead he wore the sneakers he’d bought for those awful jazzercise classes. They were hardly high fashion but better than some kind of matronly loafer. In a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater, it didn’t look too bad. Kim looked severe in her dark blue pantsuit and her stilettos. Trott enviously wished they could trade shoes.

Kim took him to the doctor, who turned out to be a plastic surgeon. At least no one stared at him in the waiting room with curiousity or pity. The other two women waiting were watching a television showing some sun drenched resort. It felt more like a salon than a medical office, all purple and green. There was an enormous crystal obelisk on the table, surrounded by fashion and travel magazines.

The exam room was similar, with all the medical equipment concealed in sleek cupboards. Instead of anatomy charts there were soft Impressionist prints of flowers. The doctor was a middle aged man with thinning brown hair. Uncharitably, Trott thought he was rather ordinary looking and probably needed a face lift of his own. He had wrinkles at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh my,” Doctor Carmine said. “What’s happened here?”

Trott and Kim spoke simultaneously.

“An accident.”

“His boyfriend.”

Trott took a deep breath and shook his head ever so slightly. Kim threw her hands up in the air. 

“Have you had any trouble breathing?” he asked, peering up Trott’s nose with a tiny light.

“No.” Trott struggled to be calm.  _ This is just a doctor _ , he told himself.  _ He isn’t going to hit you. _ When the doctor gently touched his nostril, Trott flinched.

“Well, it should heal up with no complications. But if you wanted to change anything about it, now is the time.” Carmine delicately probed Trott’s face with his finger tips. The bruising was starting to turn darker. Trott hadn’t even tried to put on makeup yet. Just washing his face was unpleasant. Bumping his nose could be agonizing. 

“No,” Trott said. Over the doctor’s shoulder he could see Kim rolling her eyes as she leaned against the door. “What? What’s wrong with my nose?”

“Aren’t you always complaining that it is too big? Get him to shave it down.” 

“No!” Trott gripped the arms of the exam chair. “It’s fine.”

“Was there anything else you were interested in doing?” Carmine asked briskly.

“No. How long am I going to look like this?”

“The bruising usually takes a couple weeks to go away. It’s a fairly traumatic injury to sensitive tissue, you see.” Dr Carmine smiled, an expression that should have been reassuring or kind. It felt patronizing. Like he could see right through Trott. Did he know? Had he seen all the papers? Of course he would recognize Trott.

“Of course.” Trott smiled tightly and gritted his teeth.

Behind Carmine, Kim rolled her eyes and snorted indelicately.

As they left the office, Trott was hyper aware of Kim looking at him with a strange expression. Like she didn’t recognize him or something had changed.

“What?” The hallway was empty as they walked past the doors of other doctors who specialized in cosmetic work.

“Did Sips hit you? Before this time?” 

Trott stopped in the dim, plush hallway. “Are you really asking me that, here? Why?”

“Because you lied in there, because you don’t talk about it and there’s something fucked up about all of this when you keep defending a man who tried to kill you.” Kim spoke in a low, furious voice as they walked to the elevator.

“Maybe I just don’t want to tell strangers about the worst night of my life?” Trott snapped back.

As they waited for the elevator, Kim cocked her head to the side and stared at him.

“You want me to take you to the other place?” she asked nonchalantly, examining her fingernails.

“What other place?” Trott rummaged through his purse, hoping to find a mint or a lifesaver or anything.

“The counselor. You know, the one I have a card for. It isn’t far.”

“I don’t need to see a counselor.” The doors opened and Trott stepped inside. He bit the inside of his cheek to conceal a wince when his feet throbbed.

“Actually, you really do.” Kim pushed the button for the lobby.

“No, I don’t.”

“You wake up crying every night, half the time you start crying without even realizing it,” Kim protested. “For god’s sake, Trott, he tried to  _ kill _ you!”

“I  _ know _ that!” Trott shouted.  _ “I can’t forget it! _ ”

“I just think it would do you some good,” Kim said finally. The elevator dinged and the doors opened on the lobby.

“I’ll think about it.” Trott put his sunglasses on and walked carefully towards the door. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the lingering sense of fear from a stranger touching his face along with his defensive fear of anyone realizing what a complete mess he was. 

If he told her, what would she say about all the fucked up moments? All the times he let Sips do things that scared him, that hurt him? Trott didn’t know if he could stand telling her the truth. He reached over the in the back seat and took her hand, feeling apologetic and embarrassed by his outburst.

“I’m just worried about you,” Kim said as the car moved through the midday traffic. “I don’t know how to help.”

“I know,” Trott said wearily. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Kim pulled his closer and slung her arm over his shoulders. Trott put his head on her as they drove back to her building.

 

* * *

 

Over Kim’s protests, Trott went home. He probably could have kept staying in the Richards’ apartment. Her parents were staying south for the rest of winter. It was certainly no hardship to sleep in the guest room across from Kim’s room, to rest with his feet up in the luxurious shower, to enjoy their endless cable television and grocery delivery. But he missed his own bed and the pictures on the wall and even his tiny green tiled bathroom. He insisted that he would call and not walk around too much. She arranged for someone to deliver his groceries after he promised to make an appointment with a counselor.

Back in his apartment, Trott checked the messages filling up his answering machine. There were calls from reporters, from tabloids to television. A few calls from friends he hadn’t spoken to in months. He listened to all of them twice and sat there unsatisfied. It was only as he was rewinding the tape that he realized he’d expected to hear one of those silent, strange messages. Trott looked at his phone. The silence was just silence. No feeling of dread or expectation.

The bag with his clothes from the hospital sat on the floor where he’d dropped it. Trott opened it up. The bracelet glimmered balefully on top of everything. He didn’t know what to do with it. Obviously, he could never wear it again. Just looking at it made him uneasy. But he couldn’t bring himself to just throw it away, not something insanely expensive like this. It made Trott feel bad, conflicted. Maybe Kim could help him sell it somewhere. Some of the high end consignment shops took jewelry. Trott wrapped it up and shoved it deep into a drawer.

The dress was ruined. Trott didn’t even want to look at his coat. The scarf was missing, along with his underwear and hose. He wondered if they’d been thrown away. It unnerved him a little, not to be able to remember being pulled out of the water. Had the police already been there or was it just Ross? Who had taken him to the hospital? Who had taken Sips?

Trott left the clothes in the bag. He sat there for a moment, looking at his dresser and the rack of clothes against the wall. Slowly at first, he picked out everything Sips bought. The fancy lingerie, the stockings and garter belt. The silk underwear. Then black velvet dress, the sweater, anything he’d worn home from the closet in Sips’ house. He stuffed it all in the bag. Trott couldn’t stand the thought of it. He could probably take it to a consignment shop but Trott just wanted it gone. He’d throw it out. Hastily, he pulled on his shoes and dragged the bag to the door.

When he flung it open, he startled to see someone right there. The fear that it was Sips made him stumble backwards.

“Fuck!” Trott exclaimed, his voice high and startled.

“I was about to knock,” Ross said, lowering his hand. He wore a plain grey jumpsuit, a thick nylon jacket and a baseball cap. He cradled a paper bag in one arm.

“What are you doing here?” Trott clutched the bag of clothes this chest. He tried to not gasp or let on that his hands were shaking.

“I wanted to check on you,” Ross explained. “There’s a reporter lurking around outside though, so I thought I’d try not to attract any attention. Were you going out?”

“Just taking out the trash.”

“I’ll take it when I leave, if you want.”

“You could have just called, you know.”

“I didn’t know if you were answering your phone. And I thought you could use some dinner. You like Chinese, right?”

Trott stepped back to let him in, leaving the bag of clothes by the door. Briefly, he let himself lean his forehead on the door. _ Calm down. It is only Ross. You’re okay.  _

They settled down on Trott’s sofa with take out containers and sodas from Trott’s fridge. The panic drained out of Trott, leaving him tired. Over the egg rolls and spicy orange chicken they talked about little things like the snow and Kim, skirting over the more serious topics. 

“Are you okay?” Ross asked eventually. “Here on your own, I mean.”

“I’m fine.”

Ross raised an eyebrow skeptically, and Trott felt his face heat up under the scrutiny. He felt a little embarrassed to be sitting here, no makeup on, his hair messy, wearing old jeans and a long sleeved shirt. He probably looked awful, especially with the bruises on his face.

“Actually it’s nice to be home, in my own place.”

“Are the reporters bothering you?”

“I get a lot of calls, but otherwise no.” Trott looked at his phone sitting on the kitchen counter. “You know, I haven’t gotten any of those weird silent calls since… everything.”

“Huh.” 

“I wondered, if maybe it was Sips?” Trott mused. “But I don’t know how he could have done it.”

“I wondered about that too.” Ross picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. “Actually, I asked someone at the phone company to pull the records.”

“Really?” Trott frowned. “Is that legal?”

“Sure.” Ross frowned and stared up at the painting hanging over the television. The landscape in its old fashioned heavy frame wasn’t by anyone notable. Trott found it in a thrift store and bought it for the beautiful autumnal trees someone had lovingly painted. “It was weird though. The calls you told me about were there. But there was no number, nothing that would identify them. They were just blank.”

“So like, a blocked number or something?”

“No, something would still be there even if it came from a hidden number. The record was just… empty. Nothing there.”

Trott shivered suddenly.

“I’ve never seen that before, and I’ve pulled lots of phone records in this job.” Ross looked at Trott, obviously puzzled. “The person calling you never said anything, did they? You never heard anything on the line?”

“No.”

“You don’t still have any of the messages?”

“No.” Trott shook his head, feeling a little queasy.

“I did some looking around and I couldn’t find any extra line that Sips had at home or at work…” Ross gestured vaguely with his chopsticks. “It’s weird. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Trott put his food down on the coffee table, and pulled his knees up to his chest.

“One time,” he began, unsure if he should actually tell Ross. “One time I said his name. I think… I think it was him.”

“Who, Sips?”

Trott hugged his legs tighter to his chest.

“Smith.”

“Trott. You started getting those calls in November. Smith was already dead by then.”

“I know.” He felt embarrassed, a little ridiculous asserting that a dead man had called him repeatedly. But Trott was certain somehow that the calls were connected to Smith. “It’s crazy. But they started after Sips… it started getting rough. I think somehow he was trying to warn me.”

Ross raised his eyebrow. “Like, a ghost?”

“I don’t know,” Trott said. “Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

Several days later, Kim came over early to help Trott with his makeup before the funeral. His face wasn’t swollen anymore but it was still tender. The bruises under his eyes were a livid purple. It was easier to have someone else stare at him, blend the concealer and foundation until he looked more presentable. She skipped the eyeliner, brushing on a greenish blue eyeshadow, and a bit of blush. Trott did his lipstick, a dark raspberry. It was a familiar, warm color. The tube was almost used up. Maybe it was time to buy some new lipstick.

It was easier to look in the mirror with the makeup on. His split lip had healed up, and the bruises on his wrists were faded to green and blue. Those were easy to cover. Trott slid on his bracelets one by one.

He dressed in the best black dress he had, a long sleeved silk number with a v neck and a bit of ruching. Trott’s only concession was wearing slightly shorter heels than usual. They were practically flats, barely even two inches of chunky heel. He’d dug them out of an old shoe box stacked in his tiny closet. 

“Did you make that appointment?” Kim asked as Trott took a last look at his himself in the mirror.

Kim wore sleek low pumps herself, and a black pantsuit. Her hair was slicked back, and she wore tiny garnet stud earrings. She’d also brought Trott a coat, a dark grey wool with a fur collar. She helped him into it.

“Next Monday afternoon,” Trott answered. He sank his chin into the fur. He wouldn’t need a scarf. Trott didn’t think he’d ever wear one again, no matter the fashion.

“Good.” Kim brushed a speck of lint off his coat. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I need to do this alone.”

“Call me, after? Or come over.”

“I will.”

Kim looked at him, her dark eyes serious. “Come on then, let's get going.”

They rode in silence to Greenwood across the river. Trott stared out the window as they crossed the bridge, looking at the buildings silhouetted against the sky.

“Can you believe this?” Kim said in a low voice, knocking her knuckles against the window as they joined the line of cars.

There were quite a few police officers on the street, barricades up to hold back a scrum of photographers. Several men in dark suits, all distressingly tall and muscled, were also clustered around the gates of the cemetery. They seemed to be checking IDs against a list. 

“Marjorie’s doing,” Kim said. “Apparently she met with Smith’s brother and offered her assistance in keeping the press out of the funeral. Hired a lot of security.”

“Have you talked to her?” Trott asked curiously.

Kim nodded. “She’s pretty shaken up by all of this.”

Trott sank back in his seat. He’d had a note from Marjorie. It was quite extraordinary, beautiful penmanship on fancy paper. She’d asked him to come and have tea with her one afternoon, and expressed her intense sorrow about everything. Trott hadn’t called her yet. He still didn’t really know what to say about any of it. He didn’t know that he wanted to talk about it, but what else could he talk about?

The brother, Tom, had flown into the City to bury Smith. It surprised Trott a little that he cared so much after being apart for so long, but Trott would be the first to admit he didn’t understand anything about family. There was a message on his answering machine. His mother’s unmistakable voice, still familiar after more than a decade, hesitantly telling him that a reporter gave her the number. Trott still hadn’t decided what to do about that either.

It was one of those January days where winter seemed almost beautiful. It was icy, the grounds of the cemetery covered in fresh snow. Light glittered in the frozen tree branches, reflecting off the snow. A cloudless blue sky stretched overhead, a vivid royal blue that seemed unreal after days of grey and gloom. Trott and Kim stepped out of the car and slowly walked uphill.

There was no actual funeral service, no religious speeches, no chapel. Just a crowd gathered around the graveside. They were up on the hill past the old mausoleums and monuments, deep in the cemetery’s vast expanse. Quite a few of the City’s notable artists had chosen to be buried here, alongside the wealthy, the political and the famous. Trott wondered what kind of gravestone Smith would have. 

Tom stepped out of the crowd, rubbing his hands together as he approached the casket. It was covered in flowers, a complete rainbow of colors that seemed out of keeping with the solemnity of a funeral. Trott swallowed hard. He could smell the roses, thick and sweet.

“Thank you for coming here today,” Tom began. He coughed and started over, a little louder. He looked a little like Smith, a tall man with brown hair that gleamed reddish gold in the sun. The crowd, full of artists and the sort of people who bought art, settled down from their murmuring. All the beautiful people, Trott thought. He caught sight of Miss J in the crowd, wearing a fur coat. To his immense surprise, Angor was standing towards the back. He looked genuinely miserable, wiping at his face. People shied away from him, all too aware of his connection to Sips and Skyblock. 

Trott could barely concentrate on whatever Tom was saying. Something about Smith, about his creative, impulsive nature. His gaze kept returning to the casket, the gleaming brass rails on the polished dark wood, the flowers draped over it. The careless spill of colors reminded him of Smith’s paintings.

_ I’m sorry _ , he thought over and over. _ I’m sorry. _ The scrape of plastic and metal on the wood beside him. _ I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I should have done. I should have listened, if that was really you calling. I’m sorry. I hope wherever you are, you’re okay. _

It ended sooner than Trott expected. Kim touched his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. The crowd was breaking up, drifting away from the grave. He realized people were looking at him, whispering.

“Are you alright?” Ross was there, his black suit with narrow lapels looking a bit old fashioned compared to the crowd in designer clothes.

“I just need a moment,” Trott said faintly. “Away from all this.” 

“Take your time,” Kim said.

Ross took his arm, leading him away from the people pausing at the grave. Trott’s shoes crunched in the snow. Kim hung back, waylaying people who might have tried to interrupt them. Ross and Trott walked slightly uphill. The sun was warm on Trott’s back. The snow was not very deep.

“Are you going to the wake, at the Astor Cohen house?” Ross asked when they stopped, turning back to look at the crowd of black clad mourners scattered across the snow. 

“I don’t know,” Trott sighed. “I should, I guess.” He could see Marjorie speaking with Tom, her hand resting on his arm. She looked like a vision of the City’s past, wearing a hat with a veil and a belted black dress that flared out from her tiny waist. It did not surprise Trott to learn she was hosting a wake. Whatever Marjorie felt about the situation, the death of one of the City’s artistic stars meant a social occasion. Where else could everyone gather but in that ballroom to whisper about Sips and about the ruin of Skyblock.

“I think Tom wanted to see you.”

“Why?” Trott couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice. “I should be one of the last people he wants to see. I was…” Trott choked on the words.  _ I was fucking the man who killed Alex Smith. I thought I was in love. I was in love with a murderer. _

“He’s a decent sort of person,” Ross said pensively. “He thinks if you hadn’t found that diary Sips would have gotten away with it and he’d never know what happened to his brother.”

“Oh.” Trott didn’t quite know what to make of that. That confusion seemed to be the running theme lately. People said things and he didn’t know how to respond. It made him feel like he was living a step removed from everyone. He hoped that counselor would be able to help him with that.

“You don’t have to, of course.” Ross continued. “I just thought it might be a good thing. He really is a genuinely kind man, Tom. It was his idea for Smith to be buried with Tracey, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sat down with him, and gave him the diary after everything. He called me that night, wondering if the county would release Tracey’s body to him even though he’s not family. He wanted to make sure she got a decent burial instead of being sent to a potter’s field.”

“So she’ll be buried here too?”

Ross nodded. “She was cremated, and her ashes are in there with him.” 

“That’s generous of him.” Trott swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to cry, not here, not when he’d worry about his makeup and the way he’d look to people. It would hurt his face, if he broke down sobbing.

“When they put the headstone up, she’ll be there. He said it seemed like Smith really cared for her, that she was at least a good friend. Tom didn’t want to bury Smith in Boston since he’d never been there. The City was his home. He thought this way they wouldn’t be lonely.”

Trott covered his mouth, wanting to bite down on his fingers. He felt so overwhelmingly sad.

“It’s the least she deserves.” Ross hesitated for a moment, glancing at Trott. “If they can prove Sips was involved in the fire at the warehouse, they’ll charge him with her death too.”

They walked to a little bench beside the hilltop path. Ross swept away the snow so Trott could sit down and rest his feet. The sun slid into afternoon as the crowd dispersed back towards the road and the waiting line of cars. A few stopped and stared as the cemetery truck rolled past, carrying a few men in thick coveralls. Trott saw Kim talking with Marjorie in the distance. Beside the grave, watching the workers lower in the casket, Tom stood with his head bowed. Carefully, Trott held a handkerchief to the corners of his eyes to soak up the tears.

“Have you seen the papers?” Ross watched the men begin to shovel earth into the grave.

Trott nodded, dabbing at his face.

“The not guilty plea, I talked to someone…” Ross took a deep breath. “You’re probably going to have to testify. Sips’ lawyer is going to try to say you killed Smith.”

“What?” Trott startled, almost dropping the handkerchief. “Why?”

“They’re going to spin a jealousy angle, try to say Sips was just covering up for you.” Ross held up his hands, his expression saying exactly how ludicrous he found the idea. “It won’t hold up. There’s too much evidence of what he did. It’s just a sham.”

“It isn’t true!” Trott was embarrassed at how he practically shouted.

“I know that,” Ross said, his voice calm. “You’ll have to testify, though. You’re a victim in this, too.”

“God, I don’t know if I can stomach that.” Trott didn’t want to see Sips. Looking at the few pictures in the paper was bad enough. But the thought of having to talk about what happened, to lay bare how foolish and awful and terrifying it was… Trott wrapped his arms around himself.

“I’ll be there.” Ross seemed to understand. “You can just look at me, the whole time. You don’t have to look at him.”

“Are you going to testify, too?” 

“Probably.” Ross sighed and looked up at the empty sky. “My boss wants me to take a little time off after I wrap up all the paperwork. Says I’ve gotten too involved in this one.”

“Does this mean you won’t be following me around any more?” Trott asked. “Since your case is done?”

Ross nodded.

“Technically, I wasn’t following you. Most of the time anyways. This wasn’t how I wanted it all to end, though. What a shame.” He sounded genuinely sad, and Trott looked up at him.

“What about _you?_ Are you alright?” Trott realized he’d never once asked.

“I’ll be okay, don’t worry about me. This just was a lot more than I thought it would be when Smith first came to talk with me. I never expected… well. Any of this.” Ross sounded so surprised and sad as his voice trailed off.

This had all been a job for Ross, he thought. How many times had he worked on something that ended this way? Trott wondered, as he studied Ross, just what it was like to be him. What Ross was like at home when he wasn’t working. Where he lived, what his place was like. He wondered why he’d never been curious before. 

He wondered if Ross was really okay, or if that was the thing he said because the alternative was to sob or scream. Did Ross see a counselor? Trott studied the way Ross stood beside him, looking for some sign of what he really felt on the inside.

The sound of the crowd and the cars taking them away was muted. They were in a small, sunny bubble of quiet and peacefulness. Downhill, the workers were filling in the grave. Tom stood still, watching. There were mounds of flowers, the colorful profusion bright on the snow.

“I never thanked you,” Trott said after a long silence. 

“For what?” Ross asked.

“For coming after me.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I think I was kind of a jerk to you at the hospital, even. You saved my life and I said you weren’t even my friend.”

“It’s okay, really.” Ross smiled. It was a small, private smile, just a quick turn of his face. “You’d had a bad night. I didn’t take it personally.”

“Thank you, though. For coming after me, for jumping in the lake. All of it. You did more than you had to do.”

“I just tried to do the right thing.” Ross looked slightly embarrassed, his cheeks flushing pink. He stared off at the horizon, squinting into the sunlight.

Trott slipped his hand out of his jacket, and took Ross’ hand hanging at his side. Their fingers laced together, and Trott squeezed gently.

“Don’t disappear on me, okay? I could use a friend.”

“Okay.” Ross smiled, squeezing back. 

“Will you come with me?” Trott asked. “I don’t think I can face this alone.”

“Sure, Trott.” Gently, Ross helped him to his feet. In the distance, the City shimmered in the winter sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far with me, for all your comments and kudos and support. I had no idea what I was getting into when I started this story! It has been such a wild experience to write outside my comfort zone. Thank you to ghostofgatsby for reading early drafts and talking with me about the idea, and to Kez for all the chats about glorious clothes and the incredible art.


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